


The Curse of Millhaven

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Case Fic, Cheerleaders, Community: homebrewbingo, Community: samdean_otp, First Time, Flashbacks, Frottage, Guilt, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Reunions, Rimming, Sex Magic, Showers, Somnophilia, Underage Sex, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been called a lot of things, but Sleeping Beauty?  That's a new one.  Dean's stuck in limbo-land, nursing a bottle of whiskey and a host of memories. On his walk down memory lane, all roads lead to Sammy.  Now the only things standing between Sam and Dean are an evil cheerleader, a pissed-off water spirit, and a spell that calls for a little something … extra.  As Sam and Dean both realize what they've lost, will true love's kiss be strong enough to erase the guilt that drove them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of Millhaven

**Author's Note:**

> Please see my [Masterpost](http://saltandbyrne.livejournal.com/20756.html) on lj for thanks, ramblings, and art!

 

Dean fucking hated witches.

 

"Hurry up, Sammy..." Dean taps his hands against the steering wheel in time with Back in Black, knows he's running out the battery but he's gonna go nuts if he sits in the car any longer.

 

 _"I got nine lives, cat's eyes, usin' every one of 'em and runnin' wild..."_ Dean hums along with the radio.

 

"Hey, there..." Dean jumps as the girl leans down. "You're new around here."

 

Dean lowers his eyebrows and looks the girl over, long curls of blonde hair, bright green eyes, cheer uniform highlighting a tiny waist and a trim little butt that would make a saint weep.

 

Dean's smarter than most saints, though, spent a lot more time in shitty small towns like Millhaven, Wisconsin, had a lot more experience with white trash Lolitas who wet their panties at the sight of Dean's Baby.

 

Dean looked like a ticket out of dodge in a leather jacket, few bats of the eyelashes and swings of the hips and he'd be taking them away from all this. Never mind that blondie looked 15 at best, Dean was good with faces, and she may as well have had “jail” and “bait” tattooed across her knuckles as she placed her hands over the car window.

 

If Dean was going to jail for sticking his dick in something, it certainly wasn't going to be her.

 

"I'm Lottie, what brings you to Millhaven, mister? Come to see the falls?"

 

"Yep, sightseeing all the shittiest waterfalls in America. Don't you have some pep rallying to go do, sweetheart? I'm waiting for someone."

 

The girl leans in further, pert cleavage right in Dean's face as he rolls his eyes and leans away, doesn't notice the sleeve of her cardigan riding up until her hand's on his chest. "I've been waiting too, Dean. I've been waiting for you for a long time." Dean reaches for his gun but it's too late, white-blue light of her hand on his chest as his eyes slide sideways to see the sigil burned on her forearm, glowing red as Dean starts to black out, blonde girl already walking away from the car as Dean slumps over the wheel.

 

"Fuckingwitchessss..."

+++

Sam taps his foot impatiently, tight, fake smile plastered on his face as he listens to the old woman rattle on about her granddaughter's cheerleading team. Sam's not even sure why he's bothering to smile, old bat can't see a thing anyway.

 

He'd been so sure he was on the right track. Bobby had called them and said he was worried about Dale, an old hunter Dad used to know, hadn't heard from him for months when Pamela called him out of the blue with two words: Loretta. Millhaven.

 

Sam had called Ellen, and Ash had tracked Dale's last known location. Sam had almost jumped at the chance to get them on a job, get them on the road and working again. Dean hadn't been ... Well, neither of them had really been OK since Dad died, but when he wasn't beating the shit out of the car or violently insisting that he was totally fucking OK, Dean was like a ghost, barely ate, tossed and turned all night.

 

Last night Sam had woken up at three AM to hear Dean doing something in his sleep that sounded a lot like crying, not that he'd say so to Dean, had to respect what a man did in his sleep. He'd wanted to go to him so badly, peel back the covers and crawl in next to him like the old days, two feet of space between their beds like an abyss. Dean hadn't touched Sam, not like that, not like they used to, since Sam had left for Stanford.

 

“You should see it when the sun goes down, son, you can watch the whole thing turn to gold.” Sam shakes his head and blinks his eyes, what the fuck is she talking about? “There's quite a bit of room under the house...”

 

“Ummm, yeah, I'm sure there is. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lynch. I'll be sure to update your insurance policy for you.”

 

“Such a sweet boy, you really should stay and meet my little Lottie, such a good girl, did you know she made captain of the cheerleading team?”

 

Sam gets a bad feeling at the base of his neck, little tingle that he learned to listen to a long time ago. “Lottie, you said. Is that, um, short for anything, Mrs. Lynch?”

 

The old woman nods her head and smiles, milky film over her eyes tilting up at Sam as she clasps her hands together in her lap.

 

“Why, yes, short for Loretta, she's named after me, dear little thing, always called her Lottie, got her blonde hair from me, you know, such a good girl, and you've never seen a pair of eyes more green...”

 

Sam's out the door while she's still talking.

+++

Waking up with his head on a bar certainly isn't a first for Dean, but it's not so commonplace that he doesn't jump a little when he comes to.

 

Dean lifts his head from his arms and puts it right back down as the worst headache he's ever felt hits him like a Mack truck. “Son of a bitch...”

 

“Better drink this, hon, that headache's only gonna get worse.”

 

Dean forces his head back up again, blinks his eyes a few times as he focuses on the woman in front of him. Bright green eyes, red hair piled on her head, cleavage that would be inappropriate on someone a third her age. Dean thinks he'd put his money on her in a bar fight.

 

“First drink's on the house, son.”

 

Dean downs the glass of water in one shot, closes his eyes as he feels the throbbing at his temples go down. He looks around him and takes in the bar, grimy kind of roadhouse dive Dean's spent cumulative months of his life in, almost as close to home as the driver's seat of his Baby.

 

“Mind telling me where I am, darling?” Dean puts on his best charm-an-old-broad smile for the lady bartender, knows better than to call her m'am if he doesn't want a slap to the face.

 

“Not really where you are that matters, hon, more like what you are. What's the last thing you remember?”

 

Dean purses his lips and thinks. “AC/DC? Wisconsin?”

 

“Millhaven, Wisconsin?” She asks encouragingly.

 

“Yeah, that's right. My, uh, my partner and I were looking into some … insurance fraud there...”

 

“Don't bullshit me, son, I know a hunter when I see one.”

 

Dean arches an eyebrow and opens his mouth to throw out some excuse, closes it again when she gives him a look. “Used to be one myself.” She smiles at him, sort of sad, definitely a story there.

 

“Yes, m'am.” Dean sits up a little straighter.

 

“You call me m'am again, I will kick your freckled ass right out of my bar. I'm Jeanie. Make any 'in a bottle' or 'rub me' jokes and I will punch you before I kick you out.”

 

“I'm Dean, Dean Winchester.”

 

“Winchester. I see... I met your dad once, long time ago.”

 

“Yeah, well, you're not gonna meet him again. He died a few months ago.” Dean sighs and rubs at his temples.

 

“I'm real sorry to hear that, Dean. I really am. But right now, son, we got some bigger things to talk about.”

 

“Is 'where the fuck am I' one of them?”

 

Jeanie gives him a warning look as she reaches under the bar, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and pours a shot.

 

“Well, Dean, you're technically in an enchanted sleep until your true love awakens you.” She raises an eyebrow at him as she knocks back the shot glass and grimaces.

 

“You're fucking kidding me, right? The last thing I remember I was in my car and then this … oh, fuck me...”

 

“Blonde? Cute little thing? Probably wearing a cheerleading uniform?”

 

“I knew it, I fucking knew it! God, I fucking hate witches!”

 

The redhead leans over the bar, face right in Dean's.

 

“Not all witches are bad, Dean,” quick snap of her fingers and Dean grabs his head, headache from the ninth circle of hell back with a vengeance, blacking out his vision with a vise-grip on his eyeballs.

 

“No one likes a bigot, son.” Another snap of her fingers and the pain is gone, Dean gripping the bar to steady himself as he blinks his eyes clear. “What the...”

 

“When that blonde little bitch got me she didn't know what she was dealing with, Dean. I had enough power to build this place and make it as tolerable as I could for myself, and anyone else she put the whammy on.” Jeanie gestures around the bar at the men and women slumped over tables and nursing their drinks. Some of them are almost transparent, flickering in and out of Dean's vision.

 

“Did you ever meet another hunter, Dale Hoyt?” Jeanie frowns and lowers her eyes. “I'm sorry, Dean, we lost him a while ago. I can only keep someone here for so long as they're alive on the other side.”

 

Dean nods and taps his fingers against the bar.

 

“So I'm whammied, is that right? How do I fight her?”

 

“You don't, son. You just got yourself a bitchwarmer seat to this fight. You said you got a partner?”

 

“Uh, yeah, my brother, Sam.”

 

“Brother, huh? Well I hope he's good, son, I really do. Once in a while, someone's good enough to pull someone out of her spell, but it ain't easy.”

 

Dean stands up and heads to the door, no way Dean is bitchwarming anything, gotta be something he can do...

 

He almost hits the floor when he gets his hand on the door, headache back with a fury.

 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, son, trust me.”

 

Dean feels the pain recede as he pulls his hand away. Fucking witches...

 

He heads back to the barstool, fist opening and closing in frustration.

 

“So what exactly am I supposed to do here?”

 

Jeanie reaches under the bar and pulls out an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

 

“Dean, I can't help get you out of here. Wouldn't be here myself if I were that strong. But I can help you pass the time.”

 

Dean looks at the empty bottle of whiskey. “You gonna get me air drunk? We having some kind of AA tea party here?”

 

Jeanie smiles at him. “Give me your hand, Dean.”

 

Dean shoots her a look before rolling his eyes and laying his hand on the bar.

 

“This might … tickle.” Jeanie closes her eyes and grasps Dean's hand, firm grip on him as she grabs the bottle of Jack and starts saying something in … not Latin, not Greek, Gaelic?

 

Dean almost jumps when her eyes roll back in her head, lips still moving silently as she shakes and holds Dean's hand tighter, static electricity shooting up his arm. Dean watches with wide eyes as the bottle of whiskey slowly fills up, honey-brown liquid making Dean's mouth water more than even good booze ought to.

 

When the bottle's full Jeanie pulls her hand away and shakes her head, hands on the bar as she takes some deep breaths.

 

“Brother, huh?” Dean feels the color rising in his cheeks as she smirks lasciviously at him, pouring off a shot from the newly-filled bottle and sliding it toward him.

 

“Have a drink, son.” Jeanie smiles at him and fans herself. “I'm gonna need one, too.”

+++

Dean can't remember the last time Sam was this hot. Dean can't believe anyone can be this hot and still be alive. They don't have a thermometer, not part of the Winchester first aid kit. Dean is 11, and while he can field-dress wounds that would put most combat medics to shame, he's less well-equipped when it comes to fevers, bugs, and flus, one of which Sam is definitely fighting right now. That's mom stuff, and they haven't had mom for a long time.

 

Dad's been gone for three days, no big deal usually, locking his boys in the motel room with enough canned food and cereal for three weeks.

 

The big deal is that Sam started getting hot about two days ago, and now he feels like he's on fire, tucked under the sweat-soaked sheets while Dean tries to force-feed him tomato rice soup, because soup is for sick people.

 

"It hurts, Dean," eyes all glassy and barely focused on Dean.

 

"What hurts, Sammy, where does it hurt?"

 

"Everywhere."

 

He's so hot, Dean can feel his fever without even putting his hand on his forehead. Dean tries to remember what mom would do, this shadowy woman that he remembers less and less every year.

 

Dean did the soup, shushed at Sammy and sang every lullaby he knew to him, eventually switching to humming Hey Jude because anything sounded better than the little half-cry-whine-moan Sammy lets out when he stops.

 

Then Dean remembers the washcloth, cool washcloth on his forehead, yes, that's it, that's what Sammy needs. Dean tears the room apart looking for a washcloth, there's only two towels in the room and they're already getting a little manky. Dean almost uses an old t-shirt when he remembers his bandana, stuffed in his duffel, still got a little bit of motor oil on it from Dad showing him how to fix the car, which Dean is really good at already. He loves how his dad looks at him like he's proud of him when he remembers the names of all the parts.

 

Dean rinses it off best he can, runs it under the cold water and folds it. Sam's shivering now, "M'cold Dean," little teeth almost chattering in his head, little body like a furnace as he shakes and starts to cry.

 

"Don't cry, Sammy, shhhh..." Dean puts the wet bandana on his forehead, holds it there with one hand while he brushes Sam's sweaty hair back with the other. "It's alright, Sammy, Dad'll be back soon, you need to go to sleep." Dean starts to hum again, tries his best to soothe Sam because he really needs to sleep, you need rest to get better and Sam needs to get better.

 

"Dean, I'm so cold," starting up with that little crying noise again, Dean can't stand it, so much scarier seeing Sam sick like this than it is to see a werewolf, and that was pretty scary.

 

Dean strips all the blankets off his own bed, tucks them around Sam, "There, nice and warm, Sammy, just try to close your eyes and sleep." Dean rinses the bandana off and puts it back on Sam's forehead, ruffles his hair, god, he's still so hot...

 

"Try to sleep, Sammy."

 

Dean turns off the light and curls up under his jacket, tries to close his eyes and sleep.

 

Then Sam starts crying again, worse this time, louder, there's gotta be something Dean can do.

 

"Sammy, shhhhh..."

 

Dean sits down on the bed next to him, rubs at his chest through the blankets like he thinks his mom used to, like the moms on TV do, just making that shush noise over and over again because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

"De..." Sammy's been trying to do the big boy thing lately, hasn't called Dean that in years now, little baby nick name that just makes Dean feel like he's failed him, all he has to do is take care of Sammy, can't do it right.

 

"De, sleep next to me." Dean sighs, knows he won't get any sleep at all next to Sam, kid always tosses and turns all night, but gives in anyway, because he always does.

 

"Ok, Sammy, but you have to go to sleep." Dean pulls back all the covers, so many, and Sam feels all hot and clammy in his pjs, shivering as the air hits him, settling down as Dean lays next to him. Sam presses right up to his side, head on Dean's chest, bandana on his head leaving a damp spot on Dean's t-shirt. Dean hugs him close and runs his hand through his hair, humming Back in Black because he can't think of anything else.

 

The next morning, Sam's fever is gone, and he wakes Dean up asking for breakfast.

 

“Sammy, you ok? Do you feel better?”

 

Sammy nods his head as Dean puts a palm on his forehead, cool skin under his hand better than anything Dean's ever felt, and he hugs Sam into him and kisses his hair just like mom used to, like dad will when he gets back.

 

“Dad'll be back soon, Sammy, ok?”

 

Sam presses his head into Dean's chest, skinny arms hugging him, “Don't need Dad.”

 

Dean feels something like pride at that, knows he probably shouldn't, but Sam's right, they only need each other, Dean knows that.

 

“Dean, can I have Lucky Charms?”

 

It's the best breakfast Dean's ever made.

+++

Sam is going to kill her. He's going to rip her little blonde head off and set her corpse on fire.

 

Dean looks so peaceful, lines on his face smoothed out, hands folded over his chest like a mummy as he lays on the hospital bed. Of course the doctors had no idea what happened, had just hooked an IV into Dean's hand and told Sam he had to wait. Sam knew exactly what had happened to Dean.

 

Fucking. Witches. Dean is always right.

 

Sam had been so sure it was old lady Loretta, all signs pointing to her after his days of research.

 

“I don't know why we're here, Sam, this is stupid, we should be going after yellow eyes.” Sam had just wanted to get Dean's mind off of things, pull him out of that quiet brooding he'd been stuck in.

 

Sam knew grief, knew he wasn't going to make it all better with a quick little witch burning in Wisconsin, but it had seemed like such a good idea. Sam had let himself hold onto a little fantasy of it being like the old days, open road, salt and burn, tumble back to the motel...

 

And now Dean was in a fucking coma because Sam hadn't even bothered to check into the old bat's family, giant red flag of a gorgeous teenage girl living alone with her incapacitated grandmother totally passing him by. Of course there were two Lorettas, no way this could have been that simple.

 

Sam had been so sure, too distracted to think things through. Sam had wanted to distract Dean, sure, but he'd also wanted to distract himself, little plan in the back of his mind, barely aware of it consciously, some part of Sam still clinging to the hope that they could make their way back to how things used to be.

 

Sam had been thinking about the way things used to be a lot this past year, losing Jess, then Dad, losing all pretense of ever getting back to a normal life, all control just slipping away. He thought about all the things he and Dean never talked about, even when they were happening, giant black hole of them wrapped up together in each other never acknowledged.

 

Sam missed it, missed it more than ever, rolling over on his side most nights to stare at Dean, asleep in the other bed, soft snores from his lips, lips Sam used to kiss every night, lips he wants to kiss right then but he won't, he can't, because Dean clearly hasn't missed Sam the way Sam has missed him. Dean hadn't laid a finger on him since Sam had left, Sam's awkward little efforts quickly rolled off, and Sam had tried to start that conversation exactly once when Dean had shot him a look that almost burned him.

 

Sam leans his head down, bent over the hospital bed, hands on Dean's arm.

 

“Dean, I swear to god, I'm going to get you out of this, whatever it takes.”

 

Sam sits back up and takes out his laptop, because while Sam may not be able to look Dean in the eye and tell him that more than anything, he wants to get back in his brother's jeans, he can research the pants off anything.

+++

“Dean, Dean, Dean, fuck, Dean, _Dean, ohmygod..._ ”

 

Sam's hands are getting so big, barely 16 and he's almost as tall as Dean, like watching one of those magic sponge toys explode open in the bathtub, eating like a horse for the past year as Dean almost feels him growing taller every day. He's still skinny, knobby knees and elbows everywhere, graceful as a drunken elephant as he walks into every door in sight, but he looks like a vision from god when he's like this.

 

Sam, his Sam, sprawled out on the bed, tan skin of him everywhere Dean looks, muscles taut, those enormous hands trembling in Dean's hair, head tossed back to call Dean's name out as he comes in Dean's mouth, Dean swallowing him down as he hears Sam scream it over and over, _Deandeandeandeandean_ sweetest thing Dean's ever heard.

+++

Dean opens his eyes and gasps, eyes darting around the bar, fingers gripped on the wooden counter, almost falls off his barstool as he realizes what just happened. _Holyfuck_...

 

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Jeanie cocks an eyebrow at him. “You alright?”

 

Dean takes a few breaths, looks up at the redhead from under his eyebrows as he feels himself start to blush, no fucking way she saw that, no way.

 

“How did … what was that?” Dean can't quite bring himself to ask, how did you just give me a technicolor flashback to me sucking my teenage baby brother's dick, and can you do it again right now?

 

“Said I'd help you pass the time, hon.” Jeanie pours out another shot and holds up the bottle of Jack, dim overhead lights catching in the amber liquid. “Motions and potions, always my strongest suit. Got it from my dad. See Dean, this bottle, here, I sort of … distilled your happiest memories into it.” She twirls the bottle from side to side. “I can't get any of us out of here, but I do what I can. As long as you can fill the bottle up, I can keep you safe and sound in here.”

 

His happiest memories. She sucked his happiest memories out of him and turned them into whiskey. Does that mean _ohfuck_...

 

“Um, when you do, uh, that, do you ...” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, not quite sure how to say, did you get the time I came in Sam's ass for the first time, because that is a big old brick on happy memory lane, and jesus christ this is just …

 

“See everything? Most of it.” Jeanie leans over the bar, placing the bottle down in front of Dean. “I'm not here to judge you, darling. I'm a hunter who's a witch who runs a bar for magic coma patients. You really think I've never seen some freaky shit before?”

 

Dean sighs and holds his head in his hands. “Fucking ...” Dean stops when Jeanie shoots him a look, “...bitches, jesus. I have to get out of here, Jeanie, I have to go help Sam.”

 

Jeanie sets her mouth in a line and pushes the shot glass towards him. “Dean, there's nothing you can do. For all intents and purposes you're dead to the world right now, darling. And you're gonna stay that way until your, uh, brother can figure out how to drag your ass out of here.”

 

“So I'm in a coma, like, right now?” Dean winces as he pictures Sam, by his side in some shitty small town hospital, feels like they just got out of the fucking hospital, knows how much Sam hates them, why did Sam drag them to fucking Wisconsin?

 

“Yes you are, darling, and you're staying there until true love awakens you.” She holds up a hand as Dean opens his mouth with something to say about that, “I don't want to hear a fucking peep out of you about what corny bullshit that is, I don't make this shit up. I just serve the drinks.”

 

Dean picks up the shot glass and holds it in his hand. “Sleeping. Beauty. I'm fucking sleeping beauty.” Dean slams back the shot as fast as he can, grimaces at the burn down his throat. “Son of a bitch.”

+++

Sam's barely slept, but that's ok, that's what coffee's for, although even the coffee in this town kind of sucks. In fact, the whole town kind of sucks.

 

Sam's attempts to gather information had been frustrating to say the least. Half the town seemed to be involved in a bitter rivalry with someone or another and felt the need to tell Sam all about it. The other half wouldn't speak to him at all, taciturn midwestern politeness giving way to stony glares when he asked too many questions.

 

But they couldn't keep him out of the library, and eight hours with the microfiche had told him more than loopy old Mr. Blake's rambling on about the devils in One Mile Creek taking his boy last christmas.

 

This town didn't just suck, it was cursed. No way any small town could hold that many mysterious deaths and accidents without something fishy going on. Sam still hadn't found any sign of Dale, but he'd found something a hell of a lot more interesting.

 

“Loretta Lynch, Millhaven's own green-eyed beauty, accepts the trophy for Millhaven High's cheerleading squad.” A pretty blonde girl smiles back at him from over the caption, cheerleading uniform outlined in crisp black and white, big banner in the background proclaiming Millhaven High “1955 State-Wide Champions.”

 

Green-eyed beauty. Sam feels that little tickle at the back of his neck again.

 

He photocopies the article and puts it in his backpack along with the others, pulling out his cell phone as he gets outside.

 

“Hi, Ellen, it's Sam … not exactly alright, no … Hey, Ellen, what color eyes did Dale have?”

+++

Dean hates it when Dad gets drunk like this. Hates having to put him to bed, hates the way Sam looks like a kicked puppy, like it's his fault Dad hits the Beam too hard for weeks on end.

 

Dean doesn't blame their Dad, he just wishes Sam didn't have to see it.

 

When he finally gets his father settled in bed Dean rubs his neck, sore from driving and carrying Dad off the couch. At least Sam won't have to sleep in the same room with Dad tonight.

 

They're settled in a crappy rental in Oklahoma, paid up front for long enough that Sam could actually enroll in school. Dean is 19 and doesn't have to worry about school any more, but he worried about Sam plenty.

 

Dean ambles into the living room. Sam's curled up on a chair, hair still damp from the shower, nose in a book while the TV drones on in the background. Dean smiles a little, knows Sam'll be happy to start school next week.

 

Sam looks up at him when he walks in, looks back down the hall. “Dad out?”

 

“Yeah, he's dead to the world for a good nine hours I'd say.” Dean leans against the door frame. Sam puts his book down and stares up at Dean through his bangs, blinking a few times.

 

“Wanna, um, watch a movie?” Sam fidgets a little, pushing his hair back.

 

This is how it always starts, watch a movie. They haven't even put the fucking movie on for months now, but it's like they still have to say it.

 

“Yeah, yeah that sounds good, Sammy. Just let me, uh...” Dean swallows, eyes slanting down as Sam licks his lips and twists his fingers in his lap, same thing he always does when he's thinking about it. “Let me grab a shower, ok?” Dean can feel himself getting hard already, these days if he just looks at Sammy for long enough he starts to chub up.

 

Sam nods at him, teeth working his lower lip, little slip of pink tongue running after it. Dean smacks his hand against the door frame and propels himself by sheer force of will to the bathroom. If they hadn't been driving for 16 hours straight in August he'd skip the whole thing and jump Sam right there.

 

But Dean's had a long, hot day, and Dean's not an asshole, and he really, really wants Sam to lick his nuts.

 

The hot water feels good on his shoulders, at least this place has decent water pressure. Dean goes a little overboard with the soap downstairs but hey, no one's gonna accuse Dean Winchester of being an inconsiderate fuck buddy.

 

If that's what he was, jesus, not exactly a catchy term in his vocabulary for “guy who thinks about coming in his baby brother's mouth constantly,” was there?

 

And lately Dean had been thinking about doing other things, things that make his stomach clench and his dick get really, really hard.

 

Sam had been pushing it for a while now, not straight out asking but Dean didn't have to be a mind-reader to get the point.

 

Sam thought he wanted Dean to fuck him. What Sam didn't know was that Dean wanted to fuck Sam about a thousand times more, thought about it all the fucking time.

 

But Sam is a fucking kid and he doesn't know what he wants. And Dean is supposed to be the one to help him make good decisions and flirt with girls and learn to drive. Dean is _not_ supposed to be standing in the shower, soap bubbles running off his half-hard dick as he thinks about Sam with his bony ankles up around his ears, Sam bent over in front of him with his ass in the air, jesus christ, when did Sam's ass get so amazing, floppy hair falling in his face every time Dean fucks into him and fucking _fuck_ this is all just so far beyond fucked up.

 

The worst part is that he knows it would make Sam happy, at least when it was happening. Dean's screwed him up so goddamn much that Sam would probably be grateful.

 

But Dean couldn't do that. Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't … it was bad enough already. The kissing, fuck, that had already crossed a line. Kissing Sam was like nothing Dean had ever felt, everything spinning out of control until Dean didn't know which way was up and which way was wrong.

 

And it felt so _right_ , warm little mouth swallowing up everything that made Dean feel like a fuck-up, like half the man their Dad was. And Dad, jesus, that was a whole other bag of fucked-up. Dean didn't like keeping secrets from his father, but this wasn't even a secret, this was knife to the throat, put you down like a sick dog territory.

 

Dean was doing the exact kind of shit that the monsters they hunted did, and he knew that he couldn't stop himself any more than a were on a full moon or a vamp in a blood clinic. He closes his eyes and tries to shut it all out, just one last time and then he'll tell Sam it has to stop.

 

Dean's skin is pink and his balls are sparkling clean when he walks towards the bedroom. He didn't bother with a towel, so his dick is bobbing up at full mast as his mouth waters, thinking about getting it all over Sam, sort of wishing Sam hadn't taken a shower because lately he even smells good to Dean when he's all sweaty and gross, ripe, musky scent of him right where his...

 

Dean has never objected to a dramatic entrance, so it would be forgivable if someone thought he was putting it on as he staggers three steps back, hand gripping against the door frame like it's holding his sanity in place. And maybe the way he bends at the waist like someone just punched him and moans out Sam's name like he'd just gargled with broken glass and downed a bleach chaser would seem over the top. But no one who was seeing what Dean was seeing could possibly blame him.

 

Sam is laying on his back, knees bent up against his chest, hard cock curving up towards his stomach. His skin is flushed and pink, slight sheen of sweat all over him making him look like he's glowing. One hand plays with his balls, lazy tug and roll that Sam likes. Sam's head lolls to the side as Dean stands in the doorway, lips parted open while his half-slanted eyes focus on Dean, who'd be looking at them if he could tear his eyes away from what Sam's other hand is doing.

 

Dean knows he was in the shower for a while, but he still can't quite process the concept that Sam has managed to work four of his fingers into his ass, his tight, try not to think about it, where the fuck did Sam get lube and jesus christing fuck four fucking fingers, ass. God, they're so shiny, glistening and catching in the light as Sam pulls them out slowly, pads of his fingers ghosting in a slow circle around the swollen, red rim of it before they disappear again.

 

Dean feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room, vacuum of want and need and primal urge to take it, take what you want, _do it do it do it he wants you_ singing through his veins as he holds himself back, knuckles white against the chipped wooden door frame.

 

“Dean.” Sam says his name like a prayer, whispered offering of that last, tiny little slice of innocence Dean knows he's gonna take, knows it even before Sam licks his lips and pulls him under for good, “Dean, I need you...”

 

Dean's not even sure how he gets on top of Sam, just knows that the floor dropped out from under him and he's gonna burn in hell and fuck it all anyway.

 

“Sammy,” Dean says gruffly with a rough grab of Sam's chin, kisses all claiming tongue and sharp teeth, hand between his legs pushing Sam's out of the way because he has to feel it, has to know.

 

“Dean, please,” god, fuck, three fingers slipping into him, hot and tight and wet and open, so open, he's ready, never ready for what this means but it's the closest he can get and Dean's taking anything he'll give right now.

 

“Got you, baby,” bottle next to his hip, shiny drip of it all over his cock because fuck if he's gonna hurt him, hurt him where he can see it, fist sliding over it too slick to hold, fumble to line up and push into all that tight heat.

 

The first breech of him almost steals his sight, grayscale filter of Sam arching his head back, teeth bared, neck strung out, “Deeeeee,” high whine dying somewhere in the air as Dean swallows it with his mouth. There's just the press of his tongue against Sam's, fingers in his hair, cock sinking into him because he needs all of it inside of Sam, where it's warm and safe and Sam needs him.

 

“Jesus, Sammy...” Dean groans at the hot shudder of him on Dean's cock, velvet stretch around him that narrows everything down to the rasp of skin on skin as Dean draws out and sinks back in. “So fucking good, Sammy, god...”

 

Dean knows it should be slow and sweet and tender, soft kisses and cupped cheeks and _Sam I love you so much I'm gonna die if you ever fucking leave me need you more than anything_. But Dean knows that's not what this is, none of this is what Sam deserves, not this animal on top of him, rough thrusts of his hips taking what isn't his, grunting and sweating and pawing at his baby brother as he comes apart.

 

Dean's like a man possessed, the filthy shit he mumbles to himself while he jerks off in the shower tumbling out of his lips, tight fist against Sam's stomach as he wraps his hand around his little brother's cock.

 

“Gonna come for me, Sammy, come while I'm inside you.” Sam rolls his eyes at the sweaty grip on his dick, harsh jerks that make Sam cry out with his mouth hanging open. “That's right, Sammy, come for me,” Dean growls savagely in his ear, something less than human spurring him on to fuck Sam as hard as he can, so hard he'll always be Dean's, no one else's, “Gonna come while your big brother fucks you, what you fucking need, isn't it, wh-”

 

And then Sam drowns everything out as he clamps down around Dean's cock and snaps him in half, splits him open as he pumps hard and fast over Dean's hand, a hot flood in between their stomachs as his muscles ripple like they're sucking Dean's fillings out through his dick and all he can do is wrap his arms around Sam's skinny shoulders, pull him down and hold him tight and fill him up and ruin him, “You're mine, Sammy, mine,” take care of Sammy, Dean, take everything, take it all.

 

Dean feels part of himself break as Sam looks up at him, sweaty bangs over his eyes, blissed-out grin on his face, “Always yours, Dean...”

+++

Dean is _not_ crying when he feels himself come to. Dean has something in his eye. Something manly and tough and stinging and possibly magic and evil.

 

Jeanie's just watching him, beehive of hair on her head tilting to one side as she rests her elbows on the bar.

 

“That good, huh?”

 

Dean runs his hand through his hair and lets out a bitter little laugh.

 

“Not good enough...”

 

Jeanie frowns at him. “I know he's trying to get you back, Dean. I think you might have a chance.”

 

Dean smiles. “Sam's smart, smarter than I ever was. You know he got a full scholarship to Stanford?” Jeanie nods, properly impressed. “If anyone can figure out how to stop blondie it's him. Too bad I'll be stuck here...”

 

Dean stares at the bottle in front of him. “No true love for me, Jeanie. Unless he figures out a way to get my car to kiss me.”

 

Jeanie laughs, “I saw that, too. Nice wheels.”

 

Dean beams. “My Baby. Best car in the world.”

 

Jeanie stares at him for a few seconds. “Love is a funny thing, Dean. Lot of the people here, they don't have anyone to love.” She waves her hand around. “See Ronnie over there? His happiest memories barely filled a hip flask. He'll be gone soon.” Dean can barely see him, chubby guy in a flannel shirt almost transparent against one of the booths in the corner.

 

“His happiest memories were of his dog, only creature ever showed him any kindness.” She shakes her head. “Poor guy. And see Kimmie over there, passed out one?”

 

Dean looks over, sees the petite brunette with her arms on the table.

 

“All her happiest memories were from books, things she'd studied and learned, revelations from philosophy, that kind of thing. Not much keeping her tethered to her body. But you, Dean...”

 

Jeanie pours out another shot. “You are one earthy son of a bitch, aren't you?” Considering the woman just downloaded the greatest hits of Dean's dick into a bottle, he's certainly not going to argue with her.

 

“That's good, Dean, that's strength. That'll keep you alive, keep you in your 'corporeal form' a lot longer than other people.”

 

Dean smiles, can't deny the irony that his complete horndog sensibility might just help him come out on top as the _princess_ in a fucking fairy tale.

 

“I know it's not my place, Dean, but you clearly love that boy with all your heart. Or at least,” pointed glance down in his lap, “with your brain.”

 

Dean closes his eyes, sighs as he thinks of all the times he's wanted to go to Sam, pull him close, smell him, taste him, bury himself inside him until he can only remember Sam's name.

 

“It's not like that any more. That was all just … kid stuff.”

 

Jeanie plants a hand down on the bar. “Kid stuff? You sure had a more interesting childhood than I did, Dean.”

 

Dean raises an eyebrow, about to tell her she can't even imagine before he remembers that she probably saw the time they'd done it on the hood of the car, both covered in swamp-thing slime, so high on the thrill of it and the adrenaline of a hard-won fight they couldn't wait for it, Dean barely pulling out in time as Dad's truck pulled up. That was definitely another paving stone on happy memory lane.

 

“Yeah, well, wasn't interesting enough. I wasn't enough.”

 

Dean grabs the bottle and pours off another shot.

 

Fucking witches.

+++

A _cailleach_. It sounds like something you'd clear out of your throat, but that's what Sam's up against.

 

The eyes had tipped him off, and a couple of phone calls to Bobby later he'd been right. Some of them went for red hair, some for freckles, probably something in human DNA that scientists don't know about yet, some trait that allowed these old irish water spirits to siphon energy from their victims while they slept.

 

Warriors and virgins were especially good victims, and Sam certainly knew which trait had attracted cheer-bitch to Dean. He just wasn't sure what the connection between Lottie and the spirit could be. These things generally preferred to dwell in their own element, water in this case, and Sam just had to figure out how to break the link between witch bitch and water bitch and he'd be able to end them both.

 

Then there was the _other_ thing. Bobby had dug up some info for Sam about breaking the spelled sleep Dean was under, and fuck if Sam knew what to do about _that_. “The warrior's kiss upon the virgin's lips, true love the bonds of sleep shall break.” Now all Sam had to do was find a virgin who was in love with Dean. Defeating the elemental water spirit and the cheerleader from hell seemed like a much easier feat.

 

Sam leans back in the motel chair, papers spread out in front of him, cold coffee in the paper cup staining rings on everything. He stretches his arms over his head and sighs.

 

True love, jesus christ, Sam wasn't even sure he believed in that any more. Dean certainly never had. Sam had loved Jess, he really had, loved the life she represented, loved her smile and her laugh and the way she made fun of him. He'd been so sure he was doing the right thing.

 

It had hurt like hell to leave Dean, to go off to school and sign up for Normal Life 101. Sam had cried for hours, cried when Dad told him not to come back, cried when Dean had stood silent and let it happen.

 

Sam's sick little dreams that Dean would fight him, beg him to stay, fall on his knees and tell Sam he loved him and wanted to be with him like _that_ , like Sam wanted him, were never coming true. That had made it a little easier, confirmed all the fears that had built up in Sam. Dean didn't really want this.

 

Sam had pushed and pushed, taken advantage of Dean's pathological need to care for him, had taken something loving and normal and twisted it into something dark and wrong. It wasn't like Dean was going to say no to him, Sam had always known that, known Dean would do anything for him.

 

Sam had seduced him, and the guilt of it had eaten him up on the inside until he hated himself for it, hated what he'd done to Dean. He knew he had to leave. Dean obviously thought what they were doing was wrong, would never speak about it with Sam, years of sex flying by without a single sit-down talk about the whole 'I'm fucking my brother' thing, unreadable look in his eyes the few times Sam even attempted to bring it up.

 

True fucking love, that's all Sam had ever really wanted from Dean. But he had taken advantage of Dean's weakness and tried to make Dean love him like no one should love their brother. Of course Dean thought he was a monster. Of course Dean hadn't wanted him like that once he'd left, once he'd given Dean a chance to think straight and realize what a sick freak his little brother was.

 

Sam closes his eyes and thinks of Dean, thinks of kissing him and climbing all over him and sucking his cock and coming in his mouth and feeling Dean inside him, and before he knows it Sam's hard, hand on his dick before he even thinks about it, Dean's name on his lips as he strokes himself.

 

Sam tries to feel sick about it, see it the way Dean does, but all he really feels is how much he misses it.

+++

Dean's asleep and he's having the best dream ever.

 

Someone baked a pie just for his dick. Dean's not sure what kind it is, hasn't gotten to taste it yet, keeps reaching his hands for it but all he feels is softness, warmth, wetness, the tight heat of it wrapped around his cock.

 

Dean moans, rocks his hips up to meet it, hot piecrust squeezing him as juicy filling runs down his shaft and onto his balls.

 

God it's so tight, so hot and sweet and wet, and Dean can hear himself moaning out a string of curse words, can feel his hands balling up in the sheets, close, he's so close, he can see the dim shadows on the ceiling from the neon motel sign, swimming in front of his eyes.

 

He feels one last buttery hot soft squeeze before he comes, eyes rolled back in his head as he grunts and bucks his hips forward, thrusts himself into all that warm sugar caramel hot grip, crust wrapping around him to suck and slurp every drop up, unrelenting pressure as the pie starts to jerk itself off, quick fap-fap-fap noise of it that Dean recognizes, that's so weird, his special dick sucking pie sounds just like Sammy when it jerks off, isn't that...

 

Dean's eyes snap open like a cheap set of blinds as his stomach drops, Oh fuck _nononono_...

 

Dean doesn't want to lift his head, doesn't want to crane his neck and see what he sees, some part of him saying he should stop being insane and go back to sleep, go back to the pie, the pie, Dean, it's pie...

 

It's not pie. It's Sam.

 

Sam. His 14 year old baby brother Sam. His most important thing in the world _take care of Sammy_ Sam. His fucking brother, and he's kneeling by the side of Dean's bed with Dean's post-jizzload dick still in his mouth while he furiously jerks off.

 

Sam looks up at him right as Dean hears him let out a little grunt that he also recognizes, jesus _fuck_ Sam's coming, spurting over his own fist while he looks at Dean, Dean's cock still in his mouth only partially managing to obscure the truly amazing array of emotions that flicker over Sam's face as it dawns on him that Dean is awake and staring at him.

 

They both stay frozen like that for a long time, Sam's eyes wide, Dean's chest heaving up and down as he breathes.

 

Dean should act like it never happened, tell Sam to go back to bed and nevermind and kids do weird shit and haha, I'll never let you live this down, sleepwalking Sam is gay. Dean should yell at him and curse and kick him out and make gay jokes and tell dad.

 

Dean definitely shouldn't reach down, hand trembling, and pet through Sam's hair, so soft, silky and floppy and Dean's favorite thing to tease him about, shouldn't run his fingers through it and think how pretty Sam looks like this, eyelashes fluttering down as Dean gently tugs at his hair to pull him up on his bed.

 

Dean shouldn't feel his gut clench with complete lust as he watches Sam's mouth, pink and small and so pretty, pretty like a girl, that soft hair, jesus christ, shouldn't feel the way he does as he watches Sam pull off his dick, little trail of spit glinting in the streetlights, shouldn't watch the way the light slats over his body through the blinds as Sam crawls up and lays down next to him, eyes never leaving Dean, lips parted open to gasp as Dean rolls him over until he's half on top of Dean.

 

Sam's skinny leg is splayed out over Dean's hip, Dean's hands on his waist pushing him over until his dick is right next to Dean's, still smaller than Dean's but hard again already, Dean rocking his hips up, sick feeling in his stomach turning into something delicious and desperate as he feels himself getting hard again as he rubs his cock against Sam's, little moans and gasps Sam's making singing down his spine and going right to his dick.

 

And he definitely shouldn't run a hand up Sam's back, fingers curling into his hair, gentle pressure leading Sam's head downwards as he whispers, “Do it again, Sammy.”

+++

Dean blinks his eyes and comes to, hot flush on his face from all the guilty joy of that first time.

 

“Need anything, darling?” Jeanie's down at the other end of the bar, game of solitaire laid out.

 

“I could use some pie,” Dean half-mutters to himself, shaking his head a little. Dean didn't think about that night very often, jesus, how sick and fucked up and perfect it had all felt.

 

“Do I look like fucking Betty Crocker to you, Dean?” Jeanie doesn't look up from her cards.

 

Dean smiles. “I was just, ah, nevermind...”

 

Dean rolls his head and cracks his neck, looks around the bar at his compatriots. Jeanie had told him that Lottie went after a few things in her victims, green eyes being the most obvious. But she also went for warriors or virgins, Jeanie giving him a long smirk after that statement.

 

Dean looks over at Ronnie, bald and paunchy, almost transparent, and he's pretty sure which end of the virgin-warrior spectrum the poor guy fell on.

 

Dean grabs his bottle and saunters over to Ronnie's table, turns a chair around to straddle the back as he sits down.

 

“Hi there. I'm Dean.” Ronnie doesn't look at him, eyes focused on some spot on the wall.

 

“So, uh, how long you been here?” Dean's pretty sure this conversation is headed about as far as poor Ronnie's sex life on the other side, but he's got to do something to keep his mind off how fucking useless he feels, and he's not sure he's ready for another shot of guilt-tinged brotherfucking splendor just right now.

 

“My Biko, she was the best. Prize-winning bitch, my Biko, had a whole wall with her trophies and everything.” Dean leans in, eyebrows furrowed together. “I really hope we're talking about a dog.”

 

“Cairn terrier, best dog in the world.”

 

“So you got 99 problems but a...yeah” Dean lets that one fall, sort of doubts old Ronnie's really gonna get that reference.

 

“I loved her so mu-u-uch...” Dean leans over to pat Ronnie on the back, drawing his hand away afterwards because Ronnie feels kind of like cold jello. “I couldn't … couldn't live without her.”

 

Dean draws his arms over the back of the chair and watches poor Ronnie weep his heart out. So much for distracting conversation.

 

Dean levels out another shot and stares at it, half-afraid to knock it back.

 

Dean never thought about that night, never let it rise to the surface of his mind except on the drunkest, loneliest, darkest hours when he was all by himself.

 

It's not like... stuff hadn't happened before. They weren't exactly the poster children for a normal childhood, too many nights in cramped motel beds, too many days on the road locked in the Impala together for anything resembling a normal trajectory for sexual development.

 

Sam had been sleeping next to Dean his whole life, could barely fall asleep without his head on Dean's chest, and it had never felt weird to Dean, like sleeping with a puppy, he'd seen lots of kids do that on TV.

 

It had gotten weirder when Dean hit puberty and started waking them both up with wet sheets and morning wood, Dean rolling over god knows how many times when he felt his dick poking into Sam's back. And if he didn't roll over sometimes, if he woke up humping into him as he felt himself come, it's not like he was doing it on purpose, was just as likely to do it to the mattress.

 

Then Dean had figured out how to jerk off and discovered his new favorite hobby, locking Sam out of the bathroom while he wrung himself out for the third or fourth time of the day.

 

Things had gotten even weirder when Sam was about 13, still sneaking into Dean's bed when he couldn't sleep. Dean remembered the first morning he'd woken up in a wet spot that for once was definitely not his, laughing as he watched Sam hump into the bed with this doofy open-mouthed smile on his face. He'd teased Sam to death about it when he woke up.

 

In hindsight, Dean knows when all the weirdness really started, and it was all his fault.

 

Dean sighs and raises his shot glass.

 

“Here's to Biko.”

+++

“Sam, if you don't get out of the fucking bathroom right the fuck now I'm breaking the door down.” Dean pounds against the door for the millionth time.

 

Sam had been in the shower for twice as long as any human being could possibly need. Dean had already peed outside out of sheer desperation, which fucking sucked because winter in Nebraska is not exactly ideal conditions for pulling your dick out in the elements.

 

Dean might only be 17, but he's been living on coffee and microwave burritos for the past two days and he's been dreaming about a toilet seat that isn't next to a glory hole since Utah.

 

“What. The. Fuck. Sam.” Dean punctuates each word with another pound against the flimsy door.

 

“Go away!” Sam growls back at him, more of a yelp really with all that cracking-voice puberty shit he's been doing lately.

 

“Dude. Turtle head.” Dean leans his shoulder against the door, because goddamit Sammy he is not taking a crap outside in minus-two-degree weather.

 

“Just give me five minutes, for fuck's sake, Dean,” Sam shrieks at him, and Dean gives him five seconds, quick countdown before he throws his weight against the door, shitty clasp lock popping off on the first try. Crappy motel rooms have their benefits.

 

“Look, Sammy, I know you wanna hog all the hot water, but a man has -” Dean stops halfway through his barreling charge to the porcelain throne, thinking to himself that it's odd he just bumped into Sam when Sam's in the shower using up all the hot water like a bitch.

 

Dean glances over at the (no steam, cold, thank fucking god) water running in the shower, eyebrows drawing together in confusion before he turns to look at Sam standing at the sink, pants around his knees, skinny legs pale in the fluorescent overhead. His face is flushed, beads of sweat on his forehead despite the chill in the room, strands of hair sticking to his neck.

 

He's just staring at Dean, obviously frozen in place because surely if Sam could move he'd take his hand off his dick and tuck the poor thing away. And seriously, what has Sam been _doing_?

 

Dean had stolen some crappy “erotic romance” novel from a drugstore once. He liked the look of the big-tittied brunette on the cover, figured he'd rub one out to her and be done with it. He would never admit to anyone that he'd read it twice, more for laughs than anything. Turgid member, who wrote this shit? Dean had laughed his ass off, especially at the description of the swashbuckling Lord Tyburn's “angry erection.”

 

The phrase instantly pops into his mind as he stares at Sam's dick, because that is one angry-looking little Sammy.

 

“Uh...” is all Dean can manage, enough to bring Sam back to his senses as he hurriedly shoves his still-hard and, jesus, why is it so red, dick back into his pants, face burning crimson as he fumbles with his fly.

 

“What the fuck, Dean,” Sam mumbles, refusing to meet Dean's eye.

 

“Sammy, you ok?” Dean feels like he has to ask, even though it makes his stomach feel even worse than it already does.

 

Sam glares at him. “Fuck you,” and then he storms out, slamming the door.

 

Dean rolls his eyes and says a silent thank you to the bathroom gods that he's finally alone.

 

There's plenty of hot water, and when Dean emerges from the shower he feels like a new man.

 

Sam's sitting on the couch reading Lord of the Flies. Dean plops down next to him. Dad had dropped them off and turned right around to head after the wendigo, so Dean rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. Clearly he's gonna be the one to deal with this.

 

“Sam.” Dean turns to look at his brother, who's staring at his book hard enough to bore holes in the pages. “C'mon, Sammy, what's up?”

 

“I hate you.” Sam doesn't look up from his book. Was Dean this much of a bitchface when he was 13? Probably not.

 

“Dude, look. We all gotta, you know, take care of business, I just, uh...” Sam is still aggressively reading like an angry nerd.

 

“Look, Sam, we had the talk about using protection, right? Because Sammy with his eye out down there didn't exactly look copacetic to me, and if you need me to take you to the clinic or something...” Sam throws his book down on the couch.

 

“Oh my god, Dean! I don't have an STD.” Sam rolls his eyes like he's on a bad soap opera. “I just get …nevermind, I really, _really_ don't want to talk about it.”

 

Dean feels strangely relieved that Sam hasn't been fooling around with anyone, and he tells himself it's because Sam is too young.

 

“Sam, come on. You can tell me anything.” Sam opens his mouth to say something bitchy before Dean cuts him off. “Sammy, seriously, I won't tease you or anything, promise.” Dean holds his hands up in front of his chest. “Swear.” Sam glares at him.

 

“I'm your brother, Sam.”

 

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his bangs. “Sometimes it sort of, um, takes me a while? To, you know... finish.” Sam darts his eyes over to Dean, who's nodding in understanding.

 

“And I keep trying but it gets, like, irritated, but then I feel like I'm gonna go crazy if I don't, you know...”

 

“Bust a nut?” Dean tries to look like he isn't laughing and half-succeeds. “Dude, I get it. Hang on.” Dean gets up and grabs his duffel, rifling around in it until he finds the jerk-off lotion, that thin Lubriderm stuff that looks so much like jizz Dean wonders if they're in on the joke.

 

He throws it to Sam. “Use this.” Sam makes a face. “Trust me. Just do it.” Sam mumbles out a thank you and puts it down next to him.

 

Dean nods, chewing on his lip. He couldn't really relate, shit, when he was 13 it was all he could do to keep from spraying every available surface it was so easy for him to come. But now, sometimes, he had those nights, cramped in some shitty bathroom with Sam or Dad or both in the next room, pulling on his dick until it hurt because sometimes it's hard for him to get off unless he can hear something. Which gives Dean a monumentally bad idea.

 

“Hey Sam, you ever, uh,” Dean blows out a breath. “Ever watch a porno before?”

 

Sam goes stock-still, eyes sliding over to Dean. “Not really...”

 

“I, uh... I just got a new one.” Dean had been looking forward to _Lesbian Cheerleader Sleepover Vol. 3 (Extended Pillowfight Scene!)_ for weeks, ever since he swiped it from that adult bookstore in Reno. Dean had wanted to clap his hands with joy when he saw that their room had a VCR. “We could watch it.”

 

“Isn't that kind of gay?” Sam looks up at Dean through his bangs, like he's not sure if Dean's playing a trick on him or not.

 

“Dude,” Dean says, hand over his heart, “there is nothing gay about lesbian cheerleaders.”

 

“Yeah, ok.” Sam still hasn't moved and his face is bright red, but the way he's shifting in his seat makes Dean think he's not too freaked out.

 

“Alright, cool.” Dean comes back with the video, hidden in the sleeve of The Getaway, because Steve McQueen would totally approve, Dean's sure. He puts it on and sits back down next to Sam.

 

It's the usual sort of porn fare, bad fake boobs and dramatic sighs and blondes making out with each other, but it's definitely enough to get the job done. Before Dean knows it he's hard, crossing and uncrossing his legs because he hadn't really thought this one through.

 

What's weirder than wanting to take his dick out in front of his brother is wondering if Sam wants to do the same thing, wondering if he's hard like he was in the bathroom. He can hear Sam breathing and making these unconscious little sighs, thick gulps when he swallows, and each little noise makes Dean shiver and shift on the couch.

 

Sam is squirming even more than Dean, teeth digging into his lip, hand reaching towards his crotch just to jerk back when he seems to notice it. Sam groans a little, eyes darting to the bathroom door before returning to the topless pillowfight, which apparently requires a lot of nipple-sucking. Dean watches Sam sneak a look over at his crotch before he licks his lips and looks back at the TV.

 

Dean flexes his jaw, gritting his teeth at the strain of his dick against his jeans. It's starting to get uncomfortable and Dean thinks about heading to the bathroom to take care of it. Then Sam lets out a long breath as one of the girls on the screen spreads her legs, two other cheerleaders leaning in so one can lick at her pussy while the other one works her tongue into her ass. Dean has to admit that it's an inspiring sight, but it's the sounds that Sam makes that have Dean pulling his button-fly down before he realizes it.

 

Sam looks over at him when he hears the metal buttons pop, eyes fixed on Dean's crotch like there's isn't a lesbian threesome happening five feet away. Knowing Sam is watching him makes Dean's gut clench, hot zing up his spine because fuck, that really gets him hot, fucked up little thrill thinking about showing Sammy how to really work his dick. Dean's always been a bit of an exhibitionist, and he takes his time getting his dick out, making sure Sam can see the wet spot on his boxer briefs before he pulls the cotton fly apart.

 

He strokes himself a few times, leaning his head back and breathing through his mouth, eyes rolling back at the sensation. He lets out a long sigh and lolls his head to the side, eyes taking in the sight of Sam, mouth hanging open as he blatantly stares at Dean's cock, hand over his own crotch to palm the bulge in his baggy jeans.

 

Dean swallows thickly, noise of it bringing Sam's eyes up to meet his, wide hazel shining against the sweaty blush on his face. Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam and sweeps his eyes down to Sam's crotch, an open invitation that Sam has clearly been waiting for. He unzips his fly and pulls his dick out with an audible sigh of relief, cock straining hard and red against his small hand.

 

Dean turns his head forward and watches the screen, stroking himself slowly because he's not ready to come yet, and there's something he wants to show Sammy.

 

Dean picks up the bottle of lotion from where it's fallen in between the couch cushions, snicking the cap open with his thumb and squirting a dime-sized dollop into his palm. He tosses it over to Sam, his younger brother starting in surprise as the bottle hits his thigh.

 

“Use it,” Dean nods his chin at the bottle, lazy smile on his face as he works his cock, smoother and slicker now. He feels a warm spurt of precome ooze from the head as he watches Sam's little fingers fumble with the cap, both hands coming up and leaving his not-so-little-anymore dick standing up proudly. Dean picks up speed as Sam squeezes out a handful of lotion and spreads it on his dick, hand moving up and down as Sam moans out a long, “Ohhh...” Dean knew he'd like the Lubriderm.

 

Sam jacks his dick fast and hard, not that he's had much time to build up any technique, but Dean can see why it hasn't been doing the trick for him. Kid clearly needs to be watching more porn.

 

“Here, try this,” Dean's voice comes out more gravelly than he would have liked, thickness in his throat growing as Sam stares at his cock, lips parted in rapt attention as Dean slowly moves his hand. He flicks his wrist when he gets to the head, little twist running his thumb over that sensitive stretch of skin at the bottom, which Dean knows has a name but fuck if he can remember it now.

 

Sam copies him, eyes rolling back in his head, “Oh, fuck,” teeth sinking into those pink – when did they get so pink, like a girl's – lips, hand moving faster as Dean's does the same. They're moving at the same rhythm now, skin-sliding sounds of it filling Dean's ears, drowning out the porn star moans in the background, until all Dean can hear is Sam fisting his cock and breathing and sighing and grunting and cursing out, “Oh, fuck, fuck,” as he gets closer.

 

Neither one of them is watching the TV any more, eyes criss-crossed over each other to watch the mirror image of his brother jerking off, matched pace as their hands fly, until Sam stops suddenly, little twitches of his wrist as he gasps in a breath, “Oh fuck, Dean,” and comes, tendons on his neck straining out as he catches it in his palm, a few stray ropes of it landing on his jeans, Dean tumbling after him as he grunts out his own orgasm.

 

Dean stares at the milky puddle in Sam's hand, viscous white and shaking in time with Sam's gasping breaths. His mouth waters as he wonders what it would taste like, if it would taste like Dean's because they're brothers, what Sam's slim little fingers would feel like in his mouth as he...

 

Dean shakes his head, crazy sort of shit is that to be thinking? The girls on the screen are still going at it, so Dean tears his eyes away from Sam and looks at the TV.

 

“See, Sammy,” Dean nods his head at the two girls making out and tickling each other with pom-poms, “I always steer you right.” Dean laughs, a little uneasier than he'd like.

 

“Yeah,” Sam slurs, dopey smile on his face, pretty flush high on his cheeks, lips hanging slack, beautiful.

 

Locked in the bathroom much later that night, as Dean lets a cloudy drop of his second orgasm of the night fall from his finger into his mouth, he'll swallow it with the deep, unsettling knowledge that something has changed irrevocably.

+++

Sam knows Dean likes it when he's loud, likes all the grunts and sighs Sam lets out when Dean fucks him. Dean never seemed to place much value on good manners, but his favorite words out of Sam's mouth in bed are “yes” and “please.”

 

Knowing that either word will just sound like a garbled mess with Dean's dick halfway down his throat, Sam settles on a loud moan as he pushes out a mouthful of spit. Sam runs his index finger through the mess sliding down Dean's balls until it's soaking wet.

 

Sam's only gotten away with this once before, but tonight he's desperate, finger running down to circle around Dean's entrance as he takes Dean as far down his throat as he can manage.

 

Sam knows this isn't his most brilliant plan, hoping he can somehow sneak-ninja his dick into Dean's ass and show him, make him feel it, make him beg Sam to stay like he couldn't in front of their father. Sam can't describe it, any more than he can talk about any of this with Dean, but if Dean could just know what Sam felt, that desperate, vulnerable closeness, missing piece falling into place, maybe Dean would finally want him.

 

Sam slowly presses his finger in, whipping out every trick he knows as he bobs his head up and down, hoping he can distract Dean enough that Dean won't bat his hand away like he has the past couple times.

 

Dean smacks his hand against the mattress but doesn't move to stop Sam, just bucks his hips up a little rougher than usual which Sam takes as an invitation to slide a second finger in. When he curls them forward Dean grunts out Sam's name and comes, fast and hot in his mouth as Sam holds his fingers there, marveling at the spasmodic clench of Dean's ass around his fingers. No wonder Dean liked it when Sam came first.

 

When Dean's finished Sam runs his tongue down to slip it in between his fingers. Dean tenses up, hips rising off the bed. “Jesus, Sammy,” his hands gripping into the sheets, still not stopping Sam, closer than he's ever gotten.

 

Sam grabs the bottle of lube that he stashed at the foot of the bed, fumbling to open it with one hand and pour a cold stream of it straight onto his aching hard cock. Dean's gonna let him, he'll see, it's not too late, Sam can put Stanford off for a year, maybe he can talk Dean into taking a few classes...

 

Dean groans when Sam pulls his fingers out and clambers up on the bed, mattress creaking under him as he settles in between Dean's legs. Sam's so focused on trying to line his dick up and push Dean's knee back and wonder what their apartment in California is going to look like that he doesn't notice that Dean's reared up on his elbows until he hears him. “Sam, what...” Dean's eyes go wide, flitting back and forth between Sam's cock and his face before he hastily scrambles off the bed, almost tripping over his feet as he stands up.

 

Sam feels frozen, hand still on his shiny wet cock as Dean paces and runs his hand through his hair, biting his lip and taking deep breaths through his nose. He starts to say something a few times, Sam's heart sinking further into his stomach with every second.

 

Dean huffs out a breath and sets his jaw, stubborn jut that Sam recognizes as Dean nods his head and throws his jeans and shirt on, pulling his boots on without any socks before he grabs the car keys and heads for the door.

 

Standing in front of the door, Dean presses a hand over his mouth and winces. “I'm sorry, Sammy,” is all he says as he leaves.

 

Dean sleeps in the car that night.

 

Sam leaves for Stanford a week later.

 

+++

Sam's neck aches as he lifts his head from the table. He really needed to start sleeping in the bed.

 

Sam blinks a few times and rubs his eyes. He sighs and looks down at the papers below him, the old text on the computer screen in front of him, not really focusing on anything as he remembers his dream.

 

Jesus, that had been awful. Sam had felt so embarrassed. He'd been so sure that it would change things, that if Dean could just ... feel the way Sam felt, feel how close he felt to Dean when they were like that, if Dean could just come apart like that for him, feel how much Sam loved him...

 

Sam sighs and runs his hand through his hair. Fuck. This was the worst part. Years apart, years without Dean coming near him, and all it took was one dream for Sam to remember it all, to feel all the things he'd tried to run away from. Sam was still running, dragging Dean off to fucking Wisconsin to hunt fucking witches instead of trying to actually talk to him.

 

Sam looks at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, hoping he still has time to make it to the diner before it closes, his eyes focusing on the old manuscript Bobby had emailed him. His eyes catch on the old, looped script, such a bitch to read, especially with the old spelling. "... butt the vyrgyn nay the warryr..."

 

Sam smiles, imagines all the jokes Dean would be making about butt virgins right now...

 

Sam almost knocks his chair over as he stands up.

 

No way.

 

No. Fucking. Way.

+++

Sam's face is so sad as he walks out of the hospital that a nurse actually "awwws" at him.

 

You can only kiss your comatose butt virgin of a brother so many times before you have to admit defeat. Sam was clearly not Dean's true warrior love, and he wasn't sure what hurt more, how much of a big girl that made him sound like for wanting it to be true or how angry it made him that it wasn't.

 

Sam slams the car door and leans his head back against the headrest. He can almost hear Dean's voice in his head telling him to apologize to his Baby.

 

Sam's at a loss, so he does the only thing he can do. He calls Bobby.

 

Bobby has a few ideas about how to take down cheer-bitch, and Sam takes notes.

 

"Bobby, I need Dean to wake up. Let's just say, what if I found someone who truly loved Dean, right, who Dean maybe still had feelings for?"

 

"Like an old girlfriend or something?"

 

"Um yeah, yeah, old girlfriend. Torch still burning, all that. If I got her here, all she'd need to do is kiss him, right? Assuming she's a virgin and, fuck, Bobby, I know it's a long shot.

 

"You know, Sam, all this true love spell shit is kind of tricky. All those fairy tales we hear today, they're pretty watered-down."

 

"Yeah, the old Grimm's tales were pretty fucked up."

 

"Heh, yeah, and those were tame compared to the originals. This ain't Disney princess territory any more, Sam, this is sex magic."

 

"Sex magic?"

 

"All this true love's kiss business, Sam, it's probably a euphemism for something a lot messier. This kind of stuff usually involves, you know, essential life energy, chi, prana, qi..."

 

"Life energy?"

 

"You know, the power to create life. Jesus christ, Sam, don't make me say it."

 

"Say wh ... Oh, ohohoh... Like, sp...ooooh."

 

"Finally. Idjit."

 

"So she'd have to, like..."

 

"Sam, I think your best bet is taking out your little witch first. Have you found her power source?"

 

"Um, I'm close. Gonna do some more work on it tonight."

 

"Alright son. You take care of yourself."

 

"Thanks, Bobby."

 

Sam tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and laughs.

 

No. Fucking. Way.

+++

“Seven AM sharp, boys.” John hands Dean the motel room key and shoulders his bag.

 

“Yes, sir,” both brothers say in unison, Dean's heartier than Sam's.

 

John nods and heads to his room, set of his shoulders telling Dean that he'll be passed out drunk in approximately 25 minutes tops. Which is just as well.

 

The dust is still settling back on the floor from their dropped bags stirring it up as they lope into the bathroom, clothes pulled off as fast as possible. Sam turns the water on, blessedly hot as Dean steps under it. There's barely room for both of them in the tiny shower stall, but it's not like either one of them wants any space between them.

 

Dean grabs the soap and rubs it between his palms, hands sudsy slippery as he crowds Sammy against the shower wall, reaches down to soap up the soft hairs that have started curling in around his cock and balls. Sam rests his forehead against Dean's collarbone, breath ghosting out along his skin as Dean feels him thicken up in his hands, soft moans leaking out of his baby brother's mouth already because Dean knows exactly what Sammy likes.

 

Dean grinds the heel of his palm against Sam's cock, feels his own dick getting heavy as he runs his hand up Sam's side, warm and wet and smooth. “Yeah, Dean, fuck...”

 

He spins Sam around with a hand on his hip, his brother automatically flattening his hands against the tiled wall. “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean breathes out, looking down Sam's back, eyes tracing down his spine until he gets to Sam's ass, round and tipped up towards Dean like a present. Dean spreads his own legs a little, Sam's still shorter than he is so he has to lower himself as Sam arches his back up until Dean's dick is right _there_ , trapped between Dean's stomach and the tight cleft of Sam's ass.

 

Dean groans at the contact, cock slotting up into that perfect, wet friction as he reaches around to fist Sam's cock, hot and hard in his hand as he starts to stroke him, pulls him back with the downstroke to press tighter against Dean's cock as he ruts forward against him.

 

Dean bites his lip, wills himself not to do it. He says he won't every time but he always fails miserably, and tonight is no exception as Dean's mouth closes around the base of Sammy's neck, wet kiss sucked onto his brother as Dean works his hand faster. Fuck, fuck don't kiss him, stop it, stop it, fuck...

 

Sam arches his neck back into Dean's mouth, high keen coming out of his throat as he bucks his hips in time with Dean's, pressing back into Dean's cock and forward into his hand. “Dean, fuck,” Sam moans, rough thrust into Dean's hand, “wanna feel it, c'mon,” squirming under Dean's hands as he tries to move, “Dean, please.”

 

Dean sighs against him, Dean hates it and loves it when Sam does this, can't resist as he takes his hands back, Sam turning around to face him, smaller body pressed against Dean's to back him up against the opposite wall. It's not far to go and Sam has his hands on both their dicks before Dean's back hits the tile, feet inching apart to lower himself until his dick is bobbing against Sam's.

 

Sam molds himself to Dean's body, small hands circled around both their cocks to hold them tight as Sam rocks his hips up, crown of his cock catching against Dean's with each thrust and making Dean cry out. Dean keeps his hands pressed against the wall, willing himself to let Sam do everything, don't touch, don't feel, don't kiss him, don't, stop it, fuck...

 

Sam's pressed so close Dean can feel his heart thudding against his chest, each breath a hot jolt of electricity against Dean's neck. Dean grunts with every stroke, skin stretched too tight against the cold tiles as Sam melts into him, hot and wet and sweet. Dean grits his teeth, neck straining as he turns his head away, Sam's lips running along the tendons cording up his throat as he sighs out Dean's name.

 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, every muscle tense and aching as he tries to hold himself back and let go at the same time, catch of Sam's dick right up against his clenching Dean's stomach and turning him inside out, all the need he has spring-loaded inside him as he feels his balls draw up tight.

 

“Dean.” Sam moves faster, flick of his thumb over the slit of Dean's cock lighting his fuse, face turned away, don't, stop it, “Dean.”

 

Dean turns his head like he's moving through quicksand, force of Sam pulling him in against everything he should have the will for, hazel eyes burning into him with a determination that Dean has only seen a few times before and knows he can't fight.

 

“Sammy.”

 

His mouth tastes better than anything should, sweet and warm just like all the rest of him, floodgates opening as Dean lets him in, tongue twisting against Sam's as one moans the other's name, words swallowed up as their lips press together and Dean comes like it's being ripped out of his soul, hands scrabbling against Sam's back as the only thing that keeps Dean standing upright is the force of Sam's little body pressed against his. Dean feels like something tore him open and put him back together better than he was before, whole body trembling as Sam slides his tongue over his teeth and rubs himself against Dean's spent cock.

 

One quick twist of his wrist and Sam screams out into his mouth, lips never separating as he shudders through it, Dean's hands memorizing every muscle jumping in his back.

 

Dean slides down the shower wall, legs spreading awkwardly in the small tub as Sam falls with him, settles in his lap as they kiss like that, making out until the water's running ice cold over them and they have to get out. They fall wet into the bed, towels still crumpled up underneath them as they tangle in each other's arms and lips until the sun comes streaming through the blinds and they have to shower again and go meet their father.

 

Dean knows that nothing will ever wash away how dirty he feels, sick with the knowledge that his baby brother's mouth latched onto his is the first thing that ever made him feel so complete.

 

+++

 

Ronnie's still going on about old Biko when Dean comes to. Dean goes to clap him on the back but stops himself, nods and grabs his bottle of keep-it-in-the-family porn whiskey and saunters back to the bar.

 

Kissing Sam. Jesus. Dean couldn't even act like he didn't think about that night on repeat. It was a testament to how fucking hot that had been that Dean still jerked off thinking about jerking off with Sam. Jeanie had definitely done some boner-whammying of her own because there was no natural way Dean could _not_ be hard thinking about Sam pressed up against him, cock so hard against his, Sammy so eager for it, soapy and slippery and hot against Dean as he'd leaned in.

 

Dean had known he'd let it go too far, there was no version of sane that had two brothers sucking each other off and rutting up against the other every chance they got, and there was definitely no version of legal given that Sam was fucking 14.

 

But Dean had tried to hang on to that last limit, kissing was … different somehow. Kissing wasn't just sex, it was being close to someone, losing yourself for that little bit of time. It wasn't like Dean didn't like kissing, fuck, he made out with every girl he could get his hands on. He knew he was good at it, too, kept it slow and sweet until he couldn't remember anything else.

 

Maybe he hadn't admitted it to himself at the time, but in hindsight he'd probably known that once he'd opened that door with Sam, there was no turning back. Dean had already known he was fucked, wouldn't say it out loud but deep down, down in that part of him that sunk him under when he was lost in some girl's lips, he knew it. Knew how it felt to see everything slip away, the pretty girl and his car and his dad and all his troubles sloughing off along with what's-her-face's name because Dean only had one person in mind when he lost himself like that.

 

And then Sam had just gone and done it, inevitable collision that scared Dean more than anything, soap-slippery slide straight into hell that Sam was too young to understand. How many girls had Sam even kissed? A handful? He was supposed to be out there playing soccer and impressing mousy brace-faced nerd girls, not pinning his big brother to the wall with his dick and his perfect, pink, wet mouth, christ.

 

In his darkest hours, after Sam had left him for Stanford so Dean could major in drinking and hunting, Dean had sometimes wondered if he was some kind of sick pedophile, if he was one of those freaks who liked pretty teenage boys. But the thought of that made him feel sick, not even the guilt-sick of watching Sam swallow his dick and thinking that it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

 

It was genuine, barf-up-your-lunch sick, and when Dean had picked Sam up from school to go find Dad, wrestling him to the floor with a little more force than was strictly necessary, he'd realized it.

 

It was Sam, always Sam. Dean didn't want teenage boys or floppy hair or hazel puppy-dog eyes, he wanted Sammy, wanted him in every way possible, wanted to kill anyone who touched him or hurt him or kept them apart. He loved Sam, like he'd never love anything else. He was that fucking sick.

 

“Whoa there, Tiger,” Dean wasn't exactly surprised that he'd gotten a hard-on while Sam was pinned beneath him, he was pretty much hard-wired to wood up when he had Sam under him at this point. But what was so surprising was how much it had felt exactly the same, even though Sam had apparently modified himself with sasquatch DNA and gamma radiation while he was at school. This huge, sprawled-out man underneath him made him just as crazy as the doe-eyed kid who'd crawled into his bed so many years ago.

 

Dean knew he'd made the wrong decisions before, and he wasn't going to make them again. Dean could live with being so monumentally fucked up that he was in love with his brother, but he wouldn't do that to Sam. It was bad enough he was dragging him back out to look for Dad, what a fucking shit-storm that was sure to be. Like either of them could have imagined what was coming.

 

Dean shakes his head and looks around the bar. He's still got a lot of mojo-booze left so he sighs and pours out another shot.

 

Dean holds it up to the dim light and swirls it around. It's honey-colored, but it glints in the light with this strange green-blue shimmer, kind of like...

 

Dean knocks back two shots in rapid succession, hoping to drink himself into oblivion before his fairy-tale princess nuts actually crawl back up into his body, because his magical porno hooch looks just like his baby brother's eyes.

 

Fucking witches.

+++

 

Fourth of July.

 

Fireworks.

 

 _Sam_.

+++

Sam had spent two days straight watching Lottie, parked outside the old house in a rented nondescript car. That and checking the local papers had given him a good grasp of her habits, and he figures he's got a good hour to get in to the house and find out where the water spirit's being kept.

 

Bobby had come through like he always did, even found an old hunter buddy who had worked a similar job in Georgia. This witch, Loretta, the original Loretta, had bound the spirit and was using it like a conduit, feeding it souls while she siphoned its energy to shift from body to body.

 

If Sam could just find where the thing was kept, he could try to free it with the spell Bobby had sent him.

 

The back door lock isn't difficult to pick and Sam's inside quickly. He stands still and closes his eyes, listening carefully. He knows the old woman is still in the house, doesn't think she'll be a problem. She's basically a husk at this point. The only reason Lottie must be keeping her alive is to avoid any uncomfortable questions from school.

 

Sam can hear a steady creaking coming from the living room. Good, she must be in her rocker.

 

Sam moves as quietly as he can, tip-toeing down the hall until he reaches a door that he thinks leads to the basement.

 

His time in the library had yielded some interesting information about the Lynch property. While it looked like any other suburban lot on the city maps, the older maps of the county had shown that it was built right on top of a series of underground caverns that connected to the old waterfalls the town boasted of in its tourist brochures.

 

It wasn't Sherlock-level detection to connect a water spirit with a waterfall. Sam finds the basement door locked, but it's another easy pick, and he's creeping down the stairs a minute later.

 

A few false starts and wrong turns later, Sam's wandering down an old dirt passageway that smells like it gave birth to all the mildew on earth. He can hear a faint trickle of water grow louder with each step.

 

He turns a corner and stops, almost dropping his flashlight.

 

Sam's seen some shit in his day. He's seen nasty, ugly, hateful things, monsters that would make lesser men question their sanity. He's seen things that eat children and use their bones as toothpicks, demons that rip grandmothers apart for fun, skinwalkers that slough off their skin in a disgusting pile of blood and gristle. Sam's prepared to handle the horror and the fear and the sickening terror of his job.

 

He's less prepared to see something so incredibly sad. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this, this broken, sick-looking thing before him.

 

She, and it's got boobs so Sam feels pretty comfortable with that pronoun, is nailed down to an iron plate inscribed with sigils and runes. She has nails through her wrists and her … flippers? Tails? Fins?

 

Sam's not quite sure what they are, definitely designed for swimming. Her entire body is covered in scales, more like plate armor than fish scales, and Sam thinks that they must have been beautiful, once. Now they're a sickly pale grey, orange around the parts touching the iron like the rust is seeping into her.

 

Thin streams of water drip down from the ceiling and splash off her, rolling down to add to the shallow, stagnant-looking pool under her.

 

She has something that looks like hair but seems oddly sentient to Sam, moving in concert with her head as she looks up at him with huge, white eyes. She rattles out something that sounds like a laugh with a heavy dose of cough.

 

“I'm not going to hurt you.” Sam tries not to shudder as her hair turns like it's squinting at him.

 

Sam takes out the iron knife that he brought and pulls the sheet of paper with the spell out of his pocket. He hears her laugh again.

 

“Fool...”

 

Sam looks over at the blank eyes staring at him, focusing on his despite their lack of pupil. It's incredibly creepy, but Sam doesn't feel threatened.

 

“You think you are the first warrior who has come to free me?”

 

Sam grips the knife a little tighter and starts to read the incantation.

 

“Half is as good as none at all, warrior.” Sam stutters, looking back at the creature. He starts to read again, louder over the sound of her bitter laughter.

 

Nothing happens. Sam reads the spell again. Nothing.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Sam steps over to her, careful to steer clear of the medusa hair. He gingerly pulls at one of the nails in her wrists, furrowing his brow and gritting his teeth as he tugs. And tugs.

 

Nothing.

 

“Imbecile.” She lolls her head back, hair swimming around her in the murky water. “Only half of you is present. You must...” She starts to sputter and cough, rust-orange water speckling her lips.

 

Sam kneels down, closer to her. “What do you mean only half of me? Do I need something else?” She coughs again and cranes her head up, rasps out something Sam can't hear. He leans in closer, arm inching forward to steady himself. He gets about two inches before his wrist is encircled with a ring of fire and he screams.

 

The fucking hair, of course it was the fucking hair, slimy tendril wrapping around his wrist like wet steel. _The virgin._ Sam rolls his eyes at the sensation, thought broadcast into his mind a spike of pain. _Bring me the virgin._

 

Sam goes ass over teakettle when she lets him go, filthy water soaking into his canvas jacket as he rolls across the cavern floor.

 

He picks up his knife and tucks it back in his jacket, looking back at the water spirit.

 

She's apparently decided that she's done with him, eyes closes as her hair wraps around her shoulders like a shawl. Sam stares at her for a moment, recoiling as one of the strands of hair pokes up and hisses at him.

 

He makes his way back upstairs, slipping out as he hears the creak of the old woman's rocker.

 

Sam glances at his watch. 6:38. He heads back to the motel room to catch a few hours of sleep and hopefully work up the nerve to go give his comatose brother a bj.

 

Fucking witches.

+++

Sam figures midnight is as good a time to do it as any. Midnight doesn't really mean anything special, considering it's always midnight somewhere, but it sounds good, and if it worked for Cinderella maybe it could work for Sleeping Brother.

 

Sam blesses the poor security and painfully old locks at Millhaven General. He's in fast, locking Dean's door behind him. The lone nurse on duty had been so enthralled in _Us_ _Weekly_ Sam was fairly sure she wouldn't be a problem.

 

He sits down on the stiff chair next to Dean's bed. Sam doesn't bother turning the overhead light on, but he can still see Dean's face in the dim light from the street, slats of it falling across his face through the blinds. His lips are parted slightly, and Sam's reaching out to run his finger over them before he realizes it.

 

God, how many nights had Sam sat there, looking at Dean while he slept? Dean always conked out like a light, snoring before his head hit the pillow. It took Sam longer to unwind, thoughts always racing through his head as he stared up at the ceiling. The miles of cheap stucco he had studied while he held himself back from Dean's side could build an entire housing development.

 

Sam draws his hand back and sighs. At least this wouldn't be the first time Sam had gone down on Dean while he was sleeping. Sam would never forget that night Dean had actually woken up, he'd gotten away with it a dozen times before.

 

“Do it again, Sammy.” Dean still had no idea and it wasn't like it had ever come up. “Grab me another beer, dude, oh and by the way when I was fourteen I sleep-raped you. With my mouth. A bunch of times.”

 

Setting his mouth in a hard line, Sam reaches into his pocket and takes out a set of rubber gloves, glancing at the door one last time before he goes to work. Taking a catheter out of Dean is definitely the least fun thing Sam has ever done to his dick.

 

When that's done, Sam tosses the gloves and runs his hand through his hair. Show time.

 

As he pulls the chair over as quietly as he can, Sam can't help but smile. He had to give it to him.

 

Even soft, Dean really does have a spectacular cock.

 

The first time Sam had dared himself to do it, finally swung his legs over his bed and ninja-stealthed his way over to Dean's, he'd pulled back Dean's covers and just stared. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Dean's cock before. They'd been jerking off together for months by then, and Sam cared less about the porn each time they did.

 

Sometimes the only reason he even watched the blowjob scenes was so he could study how the porn girls did it, try to see what Dean liked best. Dean liked brunettes, a lot of spit and pink lips.

 

When he'd finally worked up the nerve to try it, Sam had just felt mesmerized by Dean's dick, snugged up against his thigh. Dean always hung to the left.

 

It had felt so _weird_ , that first tentative swipe of his tongue over Dean's soft dick. It was so much smoother than he'd expected, and warm, heavy on his lips as he slowly, excruciatingly carefully closed them over the head of it and sucked. He'd dribbled a little spit down it and almost had a heart attack when Dean stirred slightly, sideways grin on his face as he started to thicken up in Sam's mouth.

 

Dean isn't stirring now, blank-faced and boneless as Sam pushes his legs apart and starts to stroke him. It's not like he's worried about waking Dean up anymore.

 

Sam looks up at the door to make sure the coast is still clear before he starts to tug on Dean's balls. He always liked that, and apparently he still does.

 

Dean's half-hard in Sam's hand, and Sam knows that's probably the best he's going to get until he puts his mouth on him.

 

Dean had always said that no one was ever going to give him a better handjob than himself. Sam had tried, but Dean had always gotten impatient and taken over, pulling Sam's hands off his cock just to push his head down towards it.

 

One last glance to the door, one last stroke of his hand, eyes sliding closed as Sam leans down and locks his lips around Dean.

 

This had better fucking work.

+++

Dean's smiling when he comes to. They'd burned down that whole field and Sam had never looked happier.

 

“Care to share?” Jeanie leans over the bar, way more cleavage than Dean ever needs to see from someone old enough to be his sort of oddly hot grandmother.

 

“Fireworks,” Dean smiles sadly at her, “burned down a whole field. Hell of a night.”

 

“With your brother?” Jeanie frowns a little, gently placing her hand over Dean's.

 

“Of course,” Dean mutters, drawing his eyes closed. “I miss him, Jeanie. You know? Not just, like, right now, I've missed him for a long time. I've been...” Dean blinks his eyes clear. “I've been fucked up, I mean, serious gaping hole inside me fucked up, and I know Sam thinks it's just Dad dying, and that sure as fuck isn't helping. But it's more than that, it's like … like I could deal with it, all of it, if I just had Sam _back_ , back like it used to be.”

 

Jeanie sighs and slides a bar napkin over to him before pulling two beers out.

 

“I just … I need him, you know? It's like he's right there and he's so far away from me. And it just makes it worse, knowing that the one thing that would make me feel better is the most fucked up, sick, twisted up thing about my whole life, and I've been hunting since I was 10 so that's saying some shit.”

 

Jeanie purses her lips and looks down at the bar.

 

“You know, Dean, my husband was named Sam. You believe that?” Dean accepts the beer she slides over to him. “And my Sam, he sounds a lot like your Sam. Sweet, dear man he was. Damn good hunter, too, but he was different, didn't do it cause he liked killing. Hated it. But he felt like he had to, like it was his fault every time someone got hurt. He carried so much on himself.”

 

Dean thinks of Sam, how he feels everything so deeply.

 

“We fought a lot, you could say I had a temper back then.” Jeanie cocks an eyebrow at him. “We fought that night.” She sips her beer and sighs.

 

“Last thing I ever said to him, to the love of my life? Go fuck yourself.” She snorts, shaking her head. “Thought it would be like any other night, he'd stomp off, come back later, fuck me stupid.” Dean widens his eyes and blushes, because women with boob wrinkles just should not talk like that.

 

“Think you're the only one ever got some, Dean?” She winks at him, takes another sip of beer. Dean is really going to miss her when Sam gets him out of here. _If_ Sam gets him out of here.

 

“Don't know if he ever came back. I went out for a smoke and woke up in fucking limbo land.” Jeanie sets her beer down and gives him a look.

 

“Not a day goes by I don't regret that, Dean. You care about someone, you gotta hold on to it. My Sam, he's been dead for years, I don't know how but I just know it.” She looks down at the bar, swirling her beer around.

 

Dean's twisted the napkin in his hand into a tight little ball. That last night with Sam, that certainly hadn't been like any other night. It's not like Dean hadn't thought about it, hadn't pressed his fist into his mouth to keep quiet as he painted motel shower curtain #9,856 white as he thought about Sam fucking him. Of course he wanted it.

 

But Dean had known, and he'd been right about the kissing and everything else so he knew he was right, that he'd fall apart if he did that, that he wouldn't be able to keep himself from throwing his arms around Sam's knees and begging him to stay. Sam was so close to getting out, college scholarship lined up behind Dean's back the most hurtful and at the same time most impressive thing he'd ever done. Dean had been so proud of Sam, and he'd hated himself so much for resenting his remarkable achievement because it clearly meant Sam didn't want to spend the rest of his life killing monsters and fucking Dean in crappy motel rooms. Dean didn't have anything else to offer him, and Sam had made his choice. Dean just needed to get the fuck out of the way and let Sam lead his normal, happy, doesn't need you, you piece of shit, life.

 

What kind of sick monster tells his little brother to turn down Stanford on a free ride because he can't bear the thought of losing the love of his life?

 

It had broken Dean's heart to leave that room, only the car knowing that he'd cried for hours as he drove her around in circles. She always kept his secrets, all the times Dean had stared at Sam as he dozed against her window. Dean had gotten Sam back, so close he could touch him, and he couldn't even tell him how he felt. No wonder Jeanie was looking at him like he was a fucking moron.

 

Dean opens his mouth to say something comforting and meaningful. Instead he just swills back his beer and says, “That fucking sucks, Jeanie, I'm sorry.”

 

“Yeah,” Jeanie twirls a finger around a strand of curly hair absentmindedly. “I'm tired, Dean.” She looks out at the bar, eyes glazing over.

 

“You do something for me if you make it out of this in one piece, ok, Dean?” She picks up a bar napkin and waves her hand over it. An address appears. Dean reads it and tucks it into his jacket, nodding his understanding.

 

“You do what you have to do, ok? Just …” She tilts her head, eyebrows drawing together before her face breaks out in a huge grin. “Well I'll be damned.” She grabs Dean's bottle of whiskey and pulls the top off.

 

“Knock this back quick, son, you'll need it.” Dean starts to say something and quickly stops when she gives him a look, taking five long swallows before the room starts spinning.

 

“Say hi to Sam for me, and tell him he's got a cute ass,” is the last thing Dean hears before everything goes black.

+++

Dean's never felt like this in his life, like every cell in his body is being scratched behind the ear, synapses bursting apart with sensory overload, tooth-rattling shake shunting him down through a bottleneck of everything Dean has ever lived for, every happy feeling toe-curling orgasm spit-swapping stolen kiss rub off humping fucking coming thank god I was born second of his life and there's only one thing left.

+++

“Sammy.”

 

Sam has about a second to realize that he just heard his name before he hears Dean grunt out, old familiar sound of it almost bringing tears to his eyes as Dean goes tense under Sam's hands and comes in his mouth, like he has a thousand times before but never quite like this.

 

He feels Dean's hand in his hair, pulling him upwards, Sam almost knocking over the chair as he stands up to lean in to his brother.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean's looking at him like he's never seen him before, blinking his eyes like he doesn't really believe what he's seeing. “Sammy, I -”

 

Sam knows he should let Dean talk, he probably has something really important and meaningful to say, but right now Sam just really needs to be kissing Dean.

 

And fuck, it's so much better than he remembered, even better than that time in the shower, better than anything. The angle's awkward and his neck would hurt him if he had any awareness left for anything except the crush of Dean's lips against his, hot press of his tongue into Sam's mouth licking away every mistake they've ever made, hand in his hair pulling him down, like Sam would ever pull away if he let go again.

 

Sam braces himself on the aluminum rail of the hospital bed and slides his hand under Dean's neck, cradling his head, holding on to him just as tight, both of them pulling the other closer until they're just sharing breath and unspoken promises.

 

“Dude. Did you just snowball me?” Dean's voice is scratchy from disuse and it's the sexiest fucking thing Sam has ever heard. Sam laughs and rests his forehead against his brother's.

 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.” Sam kisses him.

 

“How did you do it?” Sam scrunches his nose up, because it's just gonna sound stupid no matter how he puts it. “Um, true love's kiss?”

 

Dean smacks his lips and raises an eyebrow at Sam. “Think you went a little overboard there with the kiss, and aren't you supposed to be a virgin?”

 

Sam's not sure how Dean knows that, but he's sure he'll hear all about it. For now he just laughs. “Apparently the spell required a little more … life essence, if you know what I mean.” Dean smirks lasciviously at that. “And, uh,” Sam leans in to whisper in Dean's ear, “you're the virgin.” It shouldn't feel this good ribbing Dean when he just saved his life, but come _on_.

 

“I am not a fucking virgin!” Dean sputters. “I mean, maybe in the...” Dean sets his jaw and looks up at Sam. “Son of a bitch.”

 

Sam just smiles and nods.

 

“I'm a fairtytale princess virgin with magic jizz.” Dean sucks his teeth and nods. “Well there's that crossed off my bucket list.”

 

Sam laughs, “Come on my fair lady, we need to get out of here. We've got a witch to fry.”

 

Dean winces as Sam slips the IV from his hand and helps Dean dress in the clothes Sam brought for him. He's still a little shaky on his feet so Sam wraps an arm around his waist and helps him. Dean pauses when they make it to the door, takes a deep breath while he looks down at the floor.

 

“You came back.” And Sam knows Dean isn't talking about the curse or the kiss or the spooge mojo.

 

“Yeah. I'm back. I mean, if you are...” Sam hesitates, brows drawn together, watches Dean look up at him, eyes wide and his lips parted slightly, breathless look of disbelief that instantly reminds Sam of the look Dean gave him the first time they had sex. Dean presses his lips together like he's going to say something before he just shakes his head and smiles.

 

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean claps him on the shoulder. “Now let's go kill this bitch.”

+++

Dean tells him everything, Jeanie, the bar, the booze, as Sam drives to Lottie's house. That had been a minor miracle, Dean had almost kissed the car the way he kissed Sam and only a near-stumble on the way out of the hospital had kept him from the driver's seat.

 

Sam fills him in on the water spirit and how they could free her. All he needs to do is get Dean into the basement so he could recite the incantation with him. Then he just had to pray that the spirit was too busy ripping cheer bitch apart to notice them getting the fuck out of there.

 

He makes sure they both have iron knives in their jackets, just in case.

 

They sneak in without a problem, Dean getting steadier on his feet the longer he's awake. The house is dark and quiet. Sam hopes Lottie needs to sleep as long as she inhabits a human form.

 

The creature looks worse when they make it back into the cavern, paler and weaker. She doesn't respond as Sam and Dean approach. Sam swears the place smells worse than before, which he wouldn't have thought possible.

 

Sam pulls the paper with the spell out of his jacket, Dean clutching the knife in his hand as they start to read it together. They get about halfway through when Sam groans and sinks to his knees, hands on his ears, skull-splitting shriek ripping through his brain. Dean's doing the same thing, teeth bared as his knife clatters to the floor.

 

“Well, isn't this cute?” Sam watches in horror as Lottie descends the stairs. Sam must have been wrong about that needing to sleep theory, because for fuck's sake she's wearing her cheer uniform at two in the morning.

 

“You two think you're the first chuckleheads who worked it out? Although I have to say,” she sidles over to Dean, pink fingernail running over his cheek, “you might be the hottest. And you're _brothers_.” She shivers dramatically and winks at Sam. “Kinky.”

 

“Do you assholes know how hard it is to make captain of the cheer squad? For, like, fifty years in a row?” She flips her blonde mane and pouts. “Nevermind jumping bodies, seriously, you guys, it's exhausting.” She rolls her eyes and steps over to the sleeping water spirit. “Callie over here, she's like an ugly little battery for me. I keep her juiced up with green-eyes like old Dean over here, she gives me enough power to keep me 16 and doing power pyramids forever.”

 

It happens so quickly Sam barely has time to notice it. Dean stumbles forward, knife back in his hand as he throws it straight at Lottie. The cheerleader ducks and steps back, easily avoiding the blade.

 

She turns to Dean. “You idiot. Iron can't hurt me. I'm in a human, you assh-”

 

And then Sam understands. Dean wasn't trying to shank her. He was just trying to move her.

 

Quick as a snake, one of the water spirit's hair tendrils strikes out and wraps itself around Lottie's ankle, scaly gray wrapping around her crisp white pom-pom ankle sock. It jerks viciously and knocks the witch to the ground.

 

Sam rolls over to Dean, doesn't even bother getting up as he holds the paper up in front of them, phonetic transcription read so fast Sam's almost afraid it won't work.

 

Unfortunately for Lottie, it works perfectly.

 

The cailleach rears up on its fins, iron nails dissolving into piles of orange dust as her hair-tentacles wrap around Lottie, pulling her in tight.

 

Sam and Dean stumble to their feet, arms around shoulders as they hustle out of the cavern. Sam is positive he doesn't need to see what comes next.

 

They make it about a foot before they're stopped dead in their tracks by a wall of water flooding down the cavern wall. Dean digs his hand into Sam's shoulder as they hear it, the water spirit's voice echoing off the cavern walls, both of them turning towards it.

 

“Warrior. Virgin.” Dean actually starts to open his mouth at that one but thankfully seems to think better of it. “Go. You have my blessing.”

 

Sam feels his skin crawl as he sees that the snake-hair definitely has teeth. The water parts before them and they run out as fast as they can, Lottie's shrill screams fading behind them.

+++

“I'll tell you one thing, man,” Dean shakes his head and taps the steering wheel. “I am never watching cheerleader porn again.”

 

Sam snorts and rests his head against the seat back, closing his eyes as the waves of exhaustion and emotion and endorphins wash over him. He wants to sleep and fuck something and cry and eat an entire pizza, although not necessarily in that order.

 

Millhaven wasn't going to have to worry about Lottie Lynch any more. Or Loretta, Sr., for that matter, they'd found her dead in her rocker, throat slit like a sacrificial lamb. Lottie had probably needed the boost after losing Dean. They left the whole mess for the police to find.

 

They pass through a drive-through on the way to the motel, Dean wolfing down two cheeseburgers in the blink of an eye while Sam gulps a soda.

 

They sweep the room quickly, shower and get their duffels loaded up in twenty minutes. They should really get going, the last thing they need is a tangle with the cops, and Sam will be happy if he never sets foot in this fucking state again. Only bad things happen in Wisconsin.

 

Dean sets his bag down on the sorry excuse for a dresser. “So, uh, guess we should clear out.”

 

Sam nods. “Yeah. Guess so.”

 

They both stand there, neither one moving, looking anywhere but at the other. Sam blows a breath out, _pfft_ of his lips hanging in the air. “We should, uh, maybe talk, I don't know, about...” Sam settles on the time-worn hand roll.

 

Dean's leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and all Sam can see is how his shirt stretches across his biceps, how that amulet he still wears after all this time is sitting on top of one of the buttons of his henley, how it used to hang down and tickle Sam's neck when they didn't have time to take their clothes off.

 

“Yeah. Talking, yeah...” Dean uncrosses his arms, runs a hand through the soft spikes of his hair as he licks his lips.

 

Sam watches his tongue trace over that sin of a mouth, unconsciously mimicking the action himself. Sam takes a few more steps towards the door, towards Dean, bag forgotten on the far bed.

 

“Yeah, that's, uh...” Sam can't take his eyes off Dean's lips, so red, slight wet shine on them drawing him in like a magpie. Sam takes a deep breath, eyes rising up to catch his brother's, hooded and green and locked on Sam.

 

“Aww, fuck, Sammy,” Dean whispers, clenches and unclenches his fists, half a step moving him closer to Sam. He's so close Sam can see his heartbeat pounding in the artery in his neck, swears he can hear it, steady drumbeat pulling him in like the tide.

 

“Dean?” And it's all Sam can manage, supposed to talk and be adults and work this out and all Sam can do is make a half-step to the side to close the space between them. “Dean,” older brother stepping into him, square inch of space between them lighting up with static electricity, “I need you.”

 

And that's all Sam's ever needed to say.

 

Dean grabs two fistfuls of flannel of pulls Sam back with him, two steps back into the wall to press Dean against it as Sam presses every hateful inch of space separating them out for good.

 

Sam has never had to lean down to kiss his brother and he knows he'll never get tired of the sight of Dean, eyes closed, face turned up to him, lips parted and ready for Sam to meet them and...

 

Sam revels in the sweet taste of Dean's mouth for barely a second before it hits him, literally hits him like being slammed up against a brick wall. Sam doesn't even know if his eyes are open but he can see everything, sight of himself as a skinny kid jerking off on a shitty sofa, pressed against an old tiled wall, spread out on a rented bed, all of it washed out with the guilt and shame and self-hatred that had filled Dean every time he looked at Sam.

 

Sam feels his stomach twist with loathing, fucking pervert creep pedophile freak monster piece of shit, Sam doesn't want this, just a kid, he's just a kid... Sam sees himself, fully grown, asleep in the Impala, pulled over on a shoulder while Dean just stares at him, lust seeping into him as he thinks about how much Sam must hate him for what he did, how the only thing keeping him here is finding yellow-eyes, ran away first chance he could get, he fucking hates you, you twisted, sick fuck, Dad left you and soon Sam'll leave you too, leave you again even though you need him back more than anything, need Sammy so badly...

 

Sam gasps as they break away. Dean is gripping his shirt like an anchor and shaking against him, eyes wide and frightened and happy and confused.

 

“I thought...”

 

“You didn't...”

 

“But you...”

 

“Why didn't...”

 

They keep cutting each other off as it dawns on Sam that Dean must have felt the same thing, seen all the shameful parts of Sam that never saw the light of day and laughed at them, because Dean had it totally wrong, it was all Sam's fault and how could Dean think that he had done anything wrong?

 

“How come...” They both start to say something before Dean just smiles at him, eyes gleaming as his lips curve up into a smile.

 

“Oh, fuck this,” Dean mumbles out as he pulls Sam in for another kiss. This time it's just a kiss, in as much as something that steals your breath and makes the world stop spinning is just a kiss. Dean's hands are still clutching Sam's shirt like he's going to disappear while Sam runs his hands up under Dean's shirt like he's wanted to a thousand nights leading up to this one.

 

Neither of them will remember exactly how they get on the bed, clothes shed without a care for button or seam, skin against skin the only thing that matters now.

 

It's familiar down to the marrow of their bones and brand new all at the same time. New scars, new muscle, old places to re-map with mouths and hands and everything else that can move. Dean still tastes the same, still smells the same as Sam buries his face in him and drowns himself in his brother, cheeks hollowed out to pull out every last drop before Dean does the same.

 

Minutes, hours spent kissing and feeling and touching until it's time, Sam knows it is, spit-slick fingers trailing from his mouth to disappear between his legs before Dean stops him with a hand on his wrist.

 

“Dean...” Sam's ready, knows it's not perfect with spit and some desperation to smooth the way but he wants this, needs it...

 

Dean just shakes his head, eyes on Sam as he pulls Sam's fingers over and presses them into himself. Sam's mouth opens with a groan of surprise and a need he didn't know he possessed, fingers working in a perfect mimic of the gentle, curling presses he'd used on himself so many times.

 

Sam knows it should be gentle and slow, knows it must hurt a little, but he can't stop himself as he pushes into his brother, years of fear and loathing and desperate longing plunging him ahead as he buries himself in the close, tight heat of Dean, this part of Dean that's only for Sam now, watches Dean gasp out at each thrust, wet eyes and wet lips shining just for Sam.

 

Dean comes first, pulling Sam down with him not long after. They collapse on top of each other, lines between sleeping and kissing and breathing blurring together until they're just one body, one mouth, a single circuit of belonging where they always knew they ought to be.

 

They pull out of town as the sun comes up, two hours of sleep leaving both of them more well-rested than they've felt in years.

 

Dean leaves Millhaven with a shiny new punch on his V-card, and Sam has a row of hickeys that raises eyebrows and sets tongues a-wagging as they head west.

 

+++

It's surprisingly easy to get the paperwork required to kill someone. That's not what they call it, of course, “witholding and withdrawal of life support” sure sounds better than “pull the plug.” But that's just what Dean's doing, and he knows it would be a disservice to Jeanie's memory to gloss over it.

 

She's in an old-age home in North Dakota, got shipped over here after she wore out her welcome at Millhaven. When no one came for her, she got lost in the fine mess of government health care bureaucracy.

 

Dean explains that they're her long-lost great-grand-nephews twice removed German on their mother's side. No one looks at the paperwork too closely.

 

“We don't even know how old she is,” one of the older nurses, a motherly woman named Sue Ann, explains to them as she leads them down the hall.

 

“I'll give you boys a moment alone with her,” she shakes her head at Jeanie, tucked peacefully under crisp white sheets. She looks ancient, thin white hair carefully combed over her head, wrists thin and brittle-looking where they're crossed over her chest. Dean wonders how old she actually is. He knows witches can live a long time, and he wonders how long she's been tucked in this bed, soul off somewhere slinging hooch for green-eyed fucks like him.

 

They sit down in the chairs next to the bed, Sam looking uncomfortable. Dean can hardly blame him.

 

“You would have liked her, Sammy. What a tough old broad.” Dean smiles and pats her hand.

 

“Wanna get the nurse, Sammy? Don't have much in the way of a eulogy here.” Sam grabs Dean's hand, quick reassuring squeeze before he turns and heads out of the room. Dean watches him walk out.

 

“You got one thing right, darling.” Dean leans in closer. “He sure does have a cute ass.” He sighs. “Thanks, Jeanie.”

 

Jeanie Smith turns out the lights at 11:42 AM. Dean holds her hand, while Sam holds his.

+++

At least digging up a freshly-laid grave is easier than digging up an ancient one. Sam and Dean make short work of it, cracking open a bottle of whiskey and passing it back and forth as they give Jeanie a viking funeral. Good witch or not, Dean's not letting her sit in the ground.

 

“Holy shit, Sammy, wish I could have kept that bottle.” Dean takes a swig of Jack. “It was fucking unreal, living it all over again.” He leans back against the hood of the car.

 

Sam takes the bottle and drinks. “Did you see that time with the slime monster? Remember that?”

 

“Yep, got that one.” Dean smiles. “And the shower.”

 

“Detachable shower-head shower or steam shower?” Sam hands the bottle back.

 

“Both.” Dean swallows and stares into the flames. “And some shit I didn't let myself think about too much.” Dean darts a look at Sam.

 

Sam nods. “I guess we owe little miss Lottie a thank-you note. I'm sure we can find something tasteful in the “reunited incest” section at the next Walmart.”

 

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “We don't owe cheer bitch a goddamn thing. Here's to Jeanie.” Dean raises his bottle and knocks back a hit of whiskey, passing it back to Sam so he can do the same.

 

They stare at the fire for a while, finally comfortable in each other's silence.

 

“Do you think she was born like that?” Sam finally says.

 

“Well, Jeanie said her dad...” Sam shakes his head.

 

“No, I mean Loretta. Do you think she was just born evil?” Dean feels his heart stop. Don't go there, Sammy.

 

“I don't know, Sammy, and I don't really care. Ding-dong, she's dead, all she wrote.” Dean swills back another.

 

“But, I mean, don't you ever wonder, Dean? She's not some creature or a demon, she was human once,” Sam taps his foot against the grille.

 

“There are times, Dean, when I feel like... like there's something inside me, something I don't understand and it scares me. All this stuff with yellow eyes, and the other kids...” Sam shrugs, brow furrowed.

 

“Here's what I think, Sam. I think that Loretta, or whatever the fuck she was called back in ye olde witch times, probably didn't start out any worse than most teenage girls. She was probably selfish, or vain, or something else that tempted her to try out some spells. And I think she made a bunch of little decisions, one after another, that all piled up and before she knew it, she's all darkside.”

 

Dean pulls Sam over until he's right under Dean, long legs spread open around Dean's waist as he leans back on the hood. He kisses his brother, deeper and longer than he means to, heart going skip-thump in his chest with the weight of that one last secret, that one thing that Dad said that Sam can't know.

 

“You're not like her.” Dean doesn't mean to sound so emphatic, hopes Sam'll just think he's horny, which is perfectly true. “C'mon, Sammy, let's get out of here.”

+++

Later, after Sam and Dean had done the only human thing to do after a funeral and fucked like rabbits rolling on E, Dean pulls Sam close to his chest and kisses that spot at the base of his neck, paler than the rest of him from his pretty girl hair, breathing in the scent of Sammy and sex and warmth and home.

 

Demons and witches and curses and spells didn't hold any power over them, not when they had this. Right now, everything was back in place where it belonged, Sam in his arms, half-asleep smile so bright Dean knew that together they could battle any darkness hell had waiting for them.

 

The End.


End file.
